nearest cabinet. One side is full of boxes. The deputies have already opened a few, revealing old blankets, candles, some small kitchen appliances, and a set of china with an ugly pattern.
“There,” the deputy says, pointing to the opposite side of the cabinet. “Behind the tarp.”
I push the tarp aside. Garden tools lean against the back wall. Two shovels, a rake, Weedwacker, a hoe.
“Take these in and have them checked for traces of DNA.”
“Yes, sir.”
I head back inside to continue peeling back the layers of their lives. I start downstairs, in the guest bathroom, and open the medicine cabinet first. Advil and Theraflu, DayQuil, and two boxes of Q-tips. A near-empty prescription bottle for Restoril. I’m not familiar with it, but a quick Google search on my phone reveals the medication is used to combat insomnia. It’s also highly addictive. This particular bottle dates back to July. Prescribed to Michael Harris by Dr. Priscilla Smith.
I bag it.
Kneeling in front of the cupboard, I start sifting, pulling out boxes filled with tissues, feminine products, and first aid essentials. I slide a plastic organizer filled with bathroom cleaners to the side, and—
Bingo.
In the far back corner, behind bottles of Clorox and bathroom cleaner, a silver cosmetic bag catches my eye. I pick it up carefully, unzip it, and shake two large prescription bottles into my palm. Valium and Vicodin. It appears the bottles have gotten wet at some point. The labels are blurred, and lifting at the corners, and the dates have faded away. Both are approximately half full.
I roll them into a bag, seal it shut, and then hold the labels up to the light to get a better look.
They were both prescribed by Dr. Cameron Garcia, who works on Valencia Street in San Francisco. More intriguingly, neither is prescribed to Michael, Colleen, or Joanna.
The prescription is for someone named Mandy McKnight.
It’s a crime to be in possession of a controlled substance prescribed to someone else. Had Michael or Colleen bought the medication illegally? Or perhaps Joanna and Michael didn’t bother to throw the pills out when they moved in five years ago. Either way, I’m going to find out.
Pulling out my phone, I do a quick Google search for “Dr. Cameron Garcia, San Francisco.” One listing hits the mark. He’s been a doctor for ten years. Women’s clinic. Great reviews. Once I’m satisfied I’ve found the right doctor, I google: “Mandy McKnight, Point Reina.” Too many hits to go through one by one. I open Facebook and do a search. Three Mandy McKnights show up. One is local to San Mateo County. Her profile image is a zoomed-in picture of a Chihuahua’s face, and the damn dog is wearing a blue hooded jacket. Private profile. Under “employment,” it lists her as the owner of Studio Balance Pilates in Half Moon Bay.
Tomorrow’s shaping up to be a busy day.
I’ll be heading to the real estate agency where Rachael works, a women’s clinic, and a Pilates studio. And maybe, if there’s time, Harris Financial.
Fifteen minutes later, after I’ve checked the recorder in my pocket to ensure it’s on and working, I go upstairs to face Michael and Colleen. They’re seated on the big leather couch practically on top of each other, holding hands, their eyes shifting to the deputies roaming the room. Two bags rest at their feet, and a quick glance at the deputy standing behind the couch—who gives a thumbs-up—tells me he’s already gone through them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. We should be finished tomorrow morning,” I say, “but whatever time we end here, rest assured there’ll be an officer on the scene all hours of the night, until we return the keys to you.”
I say this for two reasons. One, I want them to know their home is safe. I won’t leave it unsecured. We’ve all seen the hungry journalists outside, greedy for some clue, some insight into Joanna. Two, and perhaps more important, I want Michael to know that he can’t come