Evidence of Life - By Barbara Taylor Sissel Page 0,81

environment created by Kim to keep Caitlin well. The comparison to this home, to this shabby but studied, soft elegance, was more than curious; it was disconcerting. Did Caitlin not come here? Abby went around the high, rolled arm of a sofa that was pulled at an angle near the iron-bellied stove. The dark, tufted leather was worn, but the sofa looked well made, heavy and durable. An afghan matching the faded colors of the area rug was tangled among the cushions as if someone might have recently lain beneath it and tossed it aside.

Abby couldn’t take her eyes off it. If her nose wasn’t full of the smell of dust, if the wood stove behind her wasn’t cold, she would think someone was here, that they had only straightened up and gone out for a walk.

Hank reappeared.

“You said Sondra was into interior design. Did she do the decorating here?” Abby asked. “It’s so different from your home in Houston.”

Hank said she did. He said, “Some of the things were her grandmother’s.” He crossed the room and picked up the conch. “We found this in Spain, Marbella. Sondra had to have it. Cost a fortune. It’s perfect, did you notice? Not a break anywhere. We found the painting there, too. She was on a bender that trip.”

“A bender?” Abby remembered Hank had used the word before when he’d mentioned Sondra and the dancing.

Hank put the shell down. “Kitchen’s through there.” He gestured toward the archway. “Bedrooms and a bathroom are down the hall.”

All at once, Abby realized how much she needed a bathroom. “Could I...?”

“Last door on the left,” he said.

The bathroom was colder than the rest of the cabin but very clean. The porcelain fixtures, a vintage, claw-footed tub, pedestal sink and toilet, were stained from hard water, from age and use, rust-edged, like the floor tiles, but still, the surfaces had a just-scrubbed gleam.

Abby hung her jacket on an iron hook on the back of the door and used the toilet. A sense of foreboding stood up in one corner of her mind; she pushed it down, washed her hands, patted cold water onto her cheeks, her closed eyes.

She looked into the bedrooms on her way out. A pair of old iron, twin-size beds furnished the smaller of the two, and a handsomely carved, antique four-poster, a double, sat in the larger bedroom. A wedge of ash-colored light fell across the matelassé coverlet. Two flattish pillows cased in crochet-trimmed cotton lay at its head. She didn’t want to imagine Nick in this room, that bed, and she left before she could.

Hank had started coffee when Abby joined him. “So, what’s next?” he asked. “Do you want to search the place?”

She laughed nervously and tucked her fingertips into the back pockets of her jeans. “Everything is so clean.”

He looked around. “Yeah, I guess no one’s ever here enough to make a mess.”

He went back into the kitchen. Abby studied the collection of photographs. They were mostly candid shots of Caitlin: on the bank of a lazy stream balancing an inner tube around her middle, sitting in a boat with an outboard motor, standing on a dock, dimpled arms encased in floaties, holding a fishing pole. Obviously she came here. Abby lifted a photo that had been taken outside on the porch. Hank was sitting on the bench. Caitlin was on her knees at his feet, holding up a Barbie doll, grinning into the camera. Other Barbie things were strewn around her, half concealed in nests of brightly patterned wrapping paper. It looked like a birthday party. Kim had said Caitlin hated Barbie. But it didn’t look as if she did from the picture.

Abby returned it to the shelf, took down another, an eight-by-ten, that showed Caitlin holding hands with a woman who was dressed in a flamingo-pink bikini top cut low to reveal her generous cleavage and a matching sarong tied to showcase her sleek torso and pierced navel. Abby carried the photo to the window, tipping it toward the light. The woman had to be Caitlin’s mother. This was Sondra, slim and lithe and lovely. Abby could see now where Caitlin had gotten her angelic beauty. Sondra’s features were as delicate, and her blond hair, like Caitlin’s, cupped her finely molded jaw. A wisp of bangs fell provocatively across her dark eyes. Sondra was bent slightly at the waist, gazing adoringly down at Caitlin, who was smiling up at her. A fashion advertisement couldn’t have been more intimately