When I round the bed and check Katherine’s nightstand, I encounter the first sign of something suspicious. A small bowl the color of a Tiffany’s box sits next to her bedside lamp. Resting at its bottom are two pieces of jewelry.
An engagement ring and a wedding band.
It immediately reminds me of Rear Window and Grace Kelly as seen through Jimmy Stewart’s telephoto lens, flashing dead Mrs. Thorwald’s wedding ring. In 1954, that was proof of guilt. Today, however, it proves nothing. That’s what Wilma Anson would tell me.
In this case, I’m inclined to agree. If Katherine did indeed leave Tom, wouldn’t it be natural for her to leave her rings behind? The marriage is over. She wants a fresh start. She doesn’t need to keep the jewelry that symbolized their unhappy union. Also, I know from our first, dramatic meeting that Katherine doesn’t always wear her wedding band.
Still, it’s suspicious enough for me to pull my phone from my pocket and snap a few pictures of the rings sitting in the bowl’s gentle curve. I keep the phone out as I peek into the bathroom, which is even bigger and more spa-like than the one in the guest room. Like everywhere else, the only thing it points to is that Tom Royce is a slob when left on his own. Exhibit A is the towel bunched next to the sink. Exhibit B is yet another pair of boxer shorts on the floor. This time, I don’t judge. Someone prowling my bedroom right now would see yesterday’s clothes in a heap at the foot of my bed and a bra tossed across the back of the easy chair in the corner.
I move from bathroom to walk-in closet. It’s large and tidy, the walls covered by an elaborate grid of shelves, hanging rods, and drawers. Nothing appears to be missing, a realization that brings a renewed sense of worry. While roaming the house, I’d been slowly coming around to the idea that maybe Katherine really did just up and leave Tom without giving him a clue about where she went. All these clothes, bearing labels from Gucci, Stella McCartney, and, in a refreshing bit of normalcy, H&M, suggest otherwise. As does a matching set of luggage tucked in the corner that I would have assumed belonged to Tom if the tags dangling from the handles didn’t bear Katherine’s name.
While I can understand leaving her engagement ring and wedding band behind, Katherine surely would have taken clothes with her. Yet the closet is filled with her things, to the point where I can spot only one empty hanger and one blank space on the shelves.
When Katherine left—if she left—she took only the clothes on her back.
I start opening drawers, seeing neatly folded sweaters, T-shirts and sweats, underwear in a rainbow of colors.
And a phone.
It’s stuffed into the back of Katherine’s underwear drawer, almost hidden behind a pair of Victoria’s Secret panties. Seeing it makes me think of Mixer and Katherine’s red triangle pinpointing her location.
I use my own phone to take a picture of it, then swipe through my call log until I find Katherine’s number. The second I hit the call button, the phone in the drawer starts to ring. I brush aside the panties until I can see my number lit up across its screen. Below it is the last time I called her.
Yesterday. One p.m.
I let the phone keep ringing until her voicemail message kicks in.
“Hi, you’ve reached Katherine.”
More worry pulses through me. Everything Katherine brought with her—her phone, her clothes, her jewelry—is still here.
The only thing missing is Katherine herself.
I pick up her phone, using a pair of panties to keep my fingerprints from smudging the screen. Thank you, guest arc on Law & Order.
The phone itself is locked, of course. The only information it provides is what’s available on the lock screen. Time, date, and how much juice is left in the battery. Very little, it turns out. Katherine’s phone is near death, which tells me it hasn’t been charged for at least a day, maybe longer.
I put the phone back where I found it, just in case Tom is keeping tabs on it. No need to alert him to my presence. I close the drawer and am about to leave the closet when Katherine’s phone begins to ring again, the sound muffled inside the drawer.
I return to the drawer, yank it open, see a phone number glowing white against the black screen. Just like me, whoever’s calling hasn’t been deemed familiar enough by Katherine to have their number saved in her phone.
But they have called before.
Along with the number is a reminder of the last time they did it.
This morning.
Because I can’t answer, I whip out my own phone and snap a picture of the number glowing on Katherine’s screen before the caller can hang up. It might be a good idea to call them later. Maybe they’re looking for Katherine, too. Maybe they’re as worried as I am.