the main living area, and then the kitchen. It was in the kitchen that she found something that might be relevant. In one of the drawers, behind the cutlery tray, there were several loose keys. Some were unmarked, but a few were affixed with a white circular tag, block letters saying what they were for. One said storage, and one said n.e. house, and one had the initials am. Did Corbin have a key to Audrey Marshall’s apartment? If so, why? It could mean so many things. Maybe they had been in a romantic relationship, close enough that they’d exchanged keys. Or it could simply be a key he kept so that he could water her plants when she was away.
She continued to search the rest of the apartment. She found more remnants from Corbin’s father’s life than she found from Corbin’s. In the den, in a closet, she found a cardboard box of videotapes with labels like clarissa’s wedding and chatham rental, august ’95. There was an old leather football in the box as well. Kate ran her finger over its dusty surface. This box with the videotapes and football was sitting on a larger plastic container that looked like a recent addition to the closet. Kate moved the box of videotapes and pulled out the container. Inside was a stack of college textbooks, economics related. There were two framed degrees, one for an M.B.A. from Andrus College in New York City and one for a B.A. from Mather College in Connecticut. Both were made out to Corbin Harriman Dell. She pulled the whole container out into the better light of the den. Was it odd that Corbin would bury his own things underneath the boxes that had belonged to his father? She went through the container’s contents. In the midst of the textbooks, there were a bundle of papers, a few photographs, and a small notebook all tied up with a piece of kitchen twine. She ruffled the edges of the papers and the photographs to see what they were. Several seemed to be grade sheets from college or business school, but she was able to dislodge one of the photographs, a glossy image of a dark-haired woman, about college age, sitting on a cold, windy-looking beach. She was in jeans and an oversized turtleneck sweater. She was looking away from the camera, her mouth open as though she was speaking. She flipped the photograph over and read the writing on the back: rachael at annisquam beach. There was no date. Kate thought: Where is Rachael now? And her mind imagined tragedies and murdered girls. She shivered, tapped her fingertips together. Just because I think something doesn’t make it true, she told herself. Another one of her internal mantras.
Kate was about to slide the photograph back into its bundle, then decided, on impulse, to also look at the notebook. She unpicked the knotted string and pulled the notebook out. It was leather bound, embossed with the seal from Andrus College. She flipped it open, feeling guilty, but it was just a regular engagement diary, segmented into days. It was from six years ago, and was filled with a spiky, minuscule handwriting. She read a few entries—mostly class times and due dates, but sprinkled throughout were social engagements, such as “drinks with H,” or “dinner party at the Esterhouses.” She closed the diary, rebundled it, and returned it to its container.
She was walking back across the apartment, wondering whether she should write Corbin back in London, when there was another knock on the door. It was Detective Roberta James again, this time accompanied by two uniformed officers.
“We’d like to look around your place, if you’d give us permission to do so.” The detective’s jaw seemed tight, her voice controlled.
“Sure, I guess,” Kate said. She wondered if she was making a mistake letting them just march into Corbin’s apartment. Should she have asked for a warrant?
“It won’t take long,” the detective said, as the two officers, each wearing light blue latex gloves, made their way into the apartment. Kate watched them turn left toward the bedroom. As was always the case with American police, she found herself fixated on the guns on their belts. She wondered what would happen if she reached out and touched one of them. Would she be thrown to the ground and handcuffed immediately? “I have a couple more questions,” Detective James continued. “We could sit.”
Kate led the detective to the two couches that faced one