Inside was a musty, unused smell overlaid with a soiled cat litter box. No cat was visible, though, unless it was hiding. She didn’t see any food or water dishes out, which meant Kitty must have taken the cat with her. She glanced around. She was in a surprisingly big kitchen that sported new appliances and even a table and chairs. And it was clean. No dishes in the sink or on the counter, and the surfaces looked like they’d been wiped down. A hum from the refrigerator indicated it was still running, but nothing was in it; there were only two ice trays in the freezer above. Napkins lay on the table in a brightly painted holder that must have been bought at an art festival.
Georgia methodically opened all the drawers and cupboards. She scanned plates and bowls, mugs and glasses, flatware and wineglasses. Where was Kitty’s junk drawer or cabinet? Every kitchen had one; it was the place where stray papers, letters, and other notes were stashed. Maybe she’d find the address of the family cabin there. She opened a drawer that held screwdrivers, Allen wrenches, pliers, duct tape, nail polish, a Metra schedule, and an eraser.
No papers, notes, or letters. Another drawer was filled with carryout menus for pizza and Chinese.
A scraping noise in the backyard made Georgia stop short. Who was there? She ducked down below the window frame and peeked out. She heard the clang of a metal garbage can, the thud of trash being deposited, and the clash of the lid as it was refastened. She allowed herself to breathe.
She counted down two minutes, then began to explore the rest of the apartment. The largest bedroom, clearly Kitty’s, contained a polished walnut bureau with a silver tray of perfumes and lipsticks on top. A queen bed was covered by a flowery duvet with matching curtains on the windows. Georgia searched through Kitty’s drawers. She found underwear, sweaters, and jeans. She made sure to feel around the clothes in case any items were hidden underneath, and when her hand reached a bulky package buried under a sweatshirt, her pulse sped up.
She uncovered the package, which turned out to be a large manila envelope. She opened it and withdrew a pile of letters wrapped in a rubber band. The return address was an APO in San Francisco. Scott’s letters to his sister while he was deployed abroad. She pulled out a few and stuck them in her pocket. She finished by opening Kitty’s closet, but it was tiny and contained no clothes. Kitty must have taken them. Given the scarcity of clothing, Georgia wondered if Kitty planned to come back.
The other bedroom was smaller and barren. Jarvis’s room. A double mattress occupied most of the space, a blanket thrown over it. A chest of drawers stood in a corner. On top of the chest was a piece of paper anchored by a snow globe of Wrigley Field. Georgia grabbed the paper. It was the receipt from Camping Unlimited, acknowledging the sale of the yurt. She checked both sides, looking for an address. Nothing. She pocketed the receipt.
After checking the closet, which was smaller than Kitty’s and just as empty, she came out of the bedroom, deflated. Maybe Jimmy and Paul were right. She was exhausted, and she’d only been working an hour. It was time to wrap up. She checked the bathroom: nothing.
The living room was last. It was cozy and comfortable. Most of the furniture was modern, except for an old-fashioned rolltop desk, which took up one corner. She hurried over. The roller was closed. She opened it and let out a soft exclamation. There it was! A beige leather address book with flowers on the cover.
She picked it up and slowly flipped through it. She didn’t have to go past the letter C. There, underneath the word “cabin,” was an address:
9415 Lakeland Road
Sand Lake, MN 55745
Georgia couldn’t believe her luck. She scribbled down the address on the back of the Camping Unlimited receipt, closed the rolltop, and started back to the kitchen. As she trudged down the hallway, a jangle of metal at the front door tore into her gut with panic. Someone was coming into Kitty’s place. Georgia frantically tried to find a hiding place. Not Kitty’s closet. Not Scott’s either.
The front door squeaked open. Georgia ran into Scott’s room, threw herself under the bed, and pulled the blanket over the side of the mattress facing the hallway. The floor was filthy with dirt, dust bunnies, mouse droppings, and who knows what else. She hoped to hell she wouldn’t sneeze.
“Who’s here?” a female voice called out. Betsy Start. What was she doing here? Had someone seen Georgia outside and called? Georgia held her breath. The clunk of boots thumped on the hardwood floor, growing louder with each step. Georgia lay perfectly still. She heard Start sniff, as if trying to detect an odor that didn’t belong. Georgia thanked the Lord she wasn’t wearing perfume.
Start went into Kitty’s bedroom. Georgia heard the closet door open and then close. Same with a drawer in the bureau. The thud of her boots grew louder and she came into Scott’s room, stopping no more than a foot from Georgia’s head. Start opened the closet in this room too, then closed it. She stood for a moment, not moving. Georgia swallowed silently. Then Start walked out.
The thump of her boots told Georgia that Betsy Start was now in the kitchen. Had Georgia closed all the drawers and cabinets? She thought so, but there was always a chance she’d forgotten one or closed it with something sticking out. Apparently not, because after what seemed like an eternity, Start opened the back door and exited the apartment. Georgia heard her lock the door. Relief flooded through her. Even so, she forced herself to stay where she was for fifteen more excruciating minutes.
She traced her steps back to the kitchen, unlocked the door, and crept out to the porch. Less than a minute later she was in her Toyota driving back to Evanston.