that suggest she was working through some serious self-doubt.” She picked up one of the books and showed it to Metcalf.
He read the title aloud: “Not My Fault: A Guide to Loss in Love.” He winced. “Ouch.”
“And right next to it is something called Broken Hearts, Broken Dreams.” She put the book back on the shelf and motioned toward the framed photos hanging in the hallway. “And it’s obvious a few of those pictures have been replaced recently.”
“Obvious how?”
“The wall is slightly sun-faded, but if you look carefully you can see fresh patches where larger-size photos once hung. I’d bet they were pictures that included her husband.” She turned back into the room. “None of this is unusual for someone who had just faced the end of a long marriage, but she was obviously struggling with it.”
“Anything else?
“She fostered at least four different types of dogs in the past six months.”
“Dog hair on the couch?”
“Yes. Very good, Metcalf.” She nodded. “And the same types of hairs are on that tracksuit jacket hanging near the front door. Harley is represented by those gold, straight, wiry hairs that have already found their way onto my living room sofa.”
Metcalf nodded. “And the slacks and jacket I was wearing last night. They pierce the fabric. You pretty much have to pull them off one at a time.”
“Something to look forward to. One more reason for Olivia to be unhappy with us.”
“Unhappy with you,” he corrected. “I was just an unwitting participant.”
“You’re not willing to take some of the heat?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Coward.”
“And Olivia knows better.”
“You’re right, not much I can do about it. That reminds me…” Kendra walked over to the coffee table, picked up the TV remote, and pressed the POWER button. After a moment, an episode of House Hunters appeared on the screen.
“Aha,” Metcalf said. “So that’s where Harley acquired his HGTV addiction.”
“One mystery solved.” Kendra turned off the TV and looked around the room again.
Come on, Elaine. Show me something, anything, that can help us…
Kendra fought another overwhelming wave of sadness.
Detach. Concentrate.
There had to be something here that would—
Wait.
It’s not something that was here. It’s something that wasn’t here.
She turned toward Metcalf. “There were pictures and video of this room in your PowerPoint. Do you happen to have any of those with you?”
He pulled out his phone. “I was very proud of it. The entire presentation is right here.”
“Of course it is.”
“Unless you need it bigger, in which case I can get my iPad from the car.”
“This will be fine. Can you pull up the shots of this house?”
Metcalf’s fingers slid across the screen with a dexterity reserved for teenage texters and the most ardent Angry Birds competitors. Within seconds, his phone screen displayed an HD video of the room in which they were presently standing.
Kendra tapped it to freeze the image. “Look at this.”
He studied the screen. “What am I looking for?”
“There are some things missing in here. When this video was shot, there was a camera on a hook at the side of the bookshelf. Now it’s gone.”
Metcalf looked from his phone, to the bookshelf, and back again. He walked over and looked at the floor.
“It’s not anywhere,” Kendra said. “I just checked. And it also looks like there was a hoodie on the coat-rack, which is also gone. And could you scan back to the kitchen?”
“Sure. Why?”
“There was a key hanging from the side of the refrigerator, held by flower magnets.”
Metcalf glanced into the kitchen. “The magnets are there.”
“The key isn’t.”
“Are you sure about this? I don’t remember seeing—”
“Check the video.”
Metcalf scanned back through the presentation until he finally saw the kitchen. “I’ll be damned. There was a key there.”
Kendra took another look around, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. “Let me look at the rest of the place. Stay close with your phone in case I need to double-check something, okay?”
“You got it.”
Kendra quickly scanned the rest of the rooms. There was a guest bedroom and bath that was decorated with an overabundance of paisley and lace, and another bedroom that had been repurposed as a project room with a low table and a taller artist’s workbench.
“Interesting,” Kendra said. She reached over and thumbed through a pile of decals, word balloons, and decorative borders. “She was a scrapbooker.”
“Not uncommon these days,” Metcalf said. “Both of my grandmothers had sewing rooms. Nowadays, it’s all about scrapbooking.”
“Fine. But where are the scrapbooks?” Kendra opened the closet, which was loaded top-to-bottom with more craft materials. “I haven’t seen one in this entire