There’s even a folded piece of paper that looks like a blueprint, accompanied by a word—“Spiegler”—in Ava’s handwriting. I put that one into my bag. It’s the only thing that remotely resembles a location. Maybe that’s where she’s holed up.
As for the rest, I wonder if it’s research for her next novel—or has my sister become a tinfoil-hat conspiracy theorist? I pull my cell phone out of my bag and fumble to find the camera on it. The screen flickers, and then my cheap phone starts rebooting. Fuck. I turn back to Ava’s desk, and there is a pen on top. Instead of trying to figure out where the hell she puts all the paper and things a normal person would keep in a desk drawer, since this table doesn’t have any, I open up one of the advance reading copies and tear out the back page. The violent ripping echoes through the house and makes my pulse race.
I copy the strange words and tuck the scrap of paper into my bag.
Being here has a weirdly familiar feel. I used to babysit as a teen, and it was impossible to resist the temptation to see how people arranged their books, what clothes they had in the closet, what was hidden in their drawers. Now that I have a chance to dig into Ava’s life, I can’t stop, even though I’m running on adrenaline and nerves.
I have to check out the rest of the house.
Stepping out into the hallway, I’m hyper-aware of every sound.
Next to Ava’s study is a storage space with dusty boxes, trunks, and old furniture. On the other side of the staircase leading down to the first floor is a guest bedroom, anonymous and boring. I ignore it and the little closet next to it. Downstairs, there is a room that’s slightly raised, just two steps above the ground floor.
Glenn’s study.
My heart is pounding the way it used to before we met for a date, thrumming a beat of danger and desire. If I am discovered here, I really will look crazy obsessed. The smallness of the room, barely larger than a closet, makes the size of the furniture even more dramatic. Glenn’s desk is easily twice as heavy as Ava’s. While hers is a simple wooden table that wouldn’t be out of place in a farmhouse kitchen or a workshop, his is made of a highly polished mahogany look-alike; it’s the kind of desk that demands attention. A show horse, not a workhorse. He gets to sit in a leather-padded ergonomic dream chair. The surface is dominated by a desktop computer and its keyboard. Why haven’t the police taken it too?
His desk doesn’t face the window like Ava’s does. He keeps his back to the view and his gaze on the door. The same alpha-male quality that I used to find sexy now seems controlling.
One wall is lined with dark bookcases, but each shelf holds only a few books. These shelves are for display. There’s an assortment of manly knickknacks: an abstract glass sculpture, a bronze eagle, a pyramid-shaped award of some kind. And there are so many framed photos of Glenn—holding up a giant fish, in outdoor gear on a ski slope, with his arm around Ava as if she is just another trophy. The ocean is behind them, and with a pang I wonder if it is their honeymoon picture.
The silence of the empty house is beginning to creep me out. I slip behind Glenn’s desk, glad I can keep an eye on my escape route as I rummage. For all the fancy wood and brass-handled drawers, nothing is locked. It’s tricky to handle the papers with my hands in socks, so I slip them off. It’s not like anyone will fingerprint the entire house.
In a movie, I would find incriminating evidence right away. Instead, all I learn is that they pay extra for the premium sports channel, they support Doctors Without Borders, and Ava makes more money in a year than I could make in a lifetime, which makes me feel like even more of a failure.
Not as much of a failure as if I will be if I’m caught. Time’s slipping away like the dripping of a faucet. I can’t stop until I find something, but I can’t stay too long.
I tentatively touch the keyboard of the computer, and it hums to life, but the screen is locked. Although feeling invasive and creepy with my hands on the keys, I remind myself I’m doing this to find Ava, whether or not she wants to be found. The password isn’t any variant or combination of Ava’s name, or Glenn’s, or “password.” I’m not some tech genius, so I just leave it and hope the computer will put itself back to sleep before Glenn gets home. Then I scrub the keyboard with my socks.
Next to the computer is a business card holder in the same rich wood as the desk. I pick up a card and study the sparse details. Glenn’s name, his email with its dot-gov domain, and his cell phone number. No address, no job title, not even a decorative picture of some kind. Seems strange to have this in a holder. Ava probably gave it to him. She always sucked at gift giving.
I pocket the card, not that I can imagine wanting to contact Glenn, but I need any information I can gather right now.
Before leaving, I pick up the picture of Ava and Glenn. He looks like he’s really smiling with his mouth and eyes, and I can feel my insides dissolving a little.
I only saw Ava with her “new boyfriend” Glenn over one Christmas break. I didn’t talk to him or make eye contact. I didn’t look at the two of them, and I always left the room as quickly as possible. The next summer I ran into Glenn in Providence. When he said, “Zoe?” I was startled, not recognizing him for a second. Then he stepped forward to give me a hug, our first, and asked warmly, “How have you been?” and I was lost.
We were together only ten weeks, because of Ava. She was done with him, and then she wasn’t. All she had to do was stretch out her hand and take him, and I was alone in the cold again, always second best.
I study the Ava in this picture. Her hair is blowing across her face, and she looks like she is about to laugh. There is motion and joy in the sunlight on the ocean waves and in the way Glenn and Ava hold on to each other. If I’d never known either of them, I would want to meet the woman in the photo. This couple looks perfect for each other. I would wish them both well.
I put the picture facedown on the shelf and leave the room, feeling again like I’m on the wrong side of the glass, looking in.
For a moment, I am opposite the front door. Light shines through the beveled window, and the back of my neck prickles again. Every second I stay here is tempting fate. I should walk right out that door and be done with it.
But I’m rash and sometimes stupid. And if I can prove where Ava is, there’s no way I’ll stop now.
I whip around the corner and down the hall. The soles of my shoes catch and squeak against the hardwood floors.
There’s a formal dining room and a little room with a piano in it, but I’m hurrying now, knowing my time is running out. I open doors and find a coat closet, a half bath, then finally the master bedroom.
The first thing I notice is the darkness. There are windows along two sides of the room, but heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes block any light except that from the hallway behind me. There is a scent to Ava’s master bedroom, feminine and masculine mixed, light citrus and something woodsy. If the staircase made me feel exposed, this room is like a safe cave, hidden from the world. I avoid looking at the bed.
This is the most intimate space of Glenn and Ava’s life together. Waves of emotion surge through me—jealousy, resentment, fury, and even a wisp of yearning.
I yank open the drawers of one bedside table, then the other. Tissues, coins, an old copy of The Economist. Must be Glenn’s side. Ava’s side has a bedside table with only a lamp. No books, not even an e-reader. I’m kneeling down to peer under the bed when a phone rings in another room and I startle, banging my head hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.