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“Yes,” Finley lied. “She’s very worried about Lena. She asked me to see if I could find her and talk her into coming home. Her father is dying.” Finley had always been quite good at creating profiles off the cuff.
The man made a face. “Oh hell. That’s too bad. You just missed her by maybe an hour.”
Finley rubbed at her forehead. “I wish I knew where she was going. Her mother will be so disappointed.”
“You’re a PI then,” he offered knowingly.
“Yes,” Finley said. Technically not a lie.
The guy eased closer. “I’ll tell you a little something I know about this house.” He jerked his head toward Marsh’s home. “The info might prove useful to someone like yourself.”
Finley waited for him to go on.
“The back door isn’t locked.”
He must have read the look on Finley’s face, since he hastened to add, “When I saw her rushing in and out, I was worried about her. Then when she suddenly drove away, I was really confused. I checked in the windows to see if maybe something had gone down.” He fixed a knowing look on Finley. “You should have a look. She left a bunch of stuff. The place looks like it was ransacked, but you might find some answers in there.” He hitched his thumb toward the rear of the property. “Like I said, the back door isn’t locked.”
Finley didn’t bother pointing out that what he was suggesting was against the law. Primarily because she had every intention of breaking it. “Thanks, I’ll do that. Anything that might help me find her for her family’s sake.”
He shook his head. “Kids these days. They don’t care about anyone but themselves.”
Finley hesitated. “Would you mind helping me out?”
“Sure thing. Whatever you need me to do.”
“Just keep an eye out and make sure no one gets the jump on me while I’m having a look inside.”
“You can count on me. I’ll just sit over here on my stoop and keep watch.”
Finley walked around to the back door, and sure enough, it was unlocked. She went inside, closed it behind her. Taking this step was a minor risk. Technically nothing she found was admissible since she wasn’t a cop and didn’t have a warrant. For Finley’s purposes it didn’t matter. Finding something—anything—that would give her a clue about where Marsh had gone was the goal.
The house was small with a kitchen–dining area that flowed into the living room in an L shape. Cupboards were still stocked with canned and dry goods. Wine and milk in the fridge. Deli meat and cheese. Marsh’s decision to leave certainly hadn’t been a planned one. Her story about Grady telling her to pack what she wanted to take when they left together had been yet another lie. Nothing had been packed, according to what the neighbor had seen today. And Finley hadn’t noticed any boxes when she’d visited, but they could have been in the bedroom. Not likely, since Marsh had carried her belongings out in her arms—no bags or boxes.
“You are looking guiltier all the time, Ms.Marsh.”
Finley checked all drawers, cupboards, and floor registers in the living area. Nothing useful. Then she moved to the bedrooms. There were two small ones and a single bath. She checked the bathroom. Medicine cabinet had been emptied. Towels and soap remained under the sink. Toilet tank only held water. The furniture in the first bedroom remained. The drawers and closet had been emptied. Nothing under the mattress or under the bed.
The second, smaller bedroom was set up as an office. The top of the desk had been wiped clean; pens and paper clips littered the floor from the hasty move. The drawers were empty. No filing cabinet or other pieces of furniture. Just the small, cheap desk and a cheaper wheeled chair. Nothing in the tiny closet.
Finley knelt and examined the area beneath the desk. Nothing. She moved across the floor on hands and knees and checked under the floor register. Nothing in the metal cavity beneath it. Before leaving the room, she went back to the desk and pulled out each drawer, looking for something that might have fallen behind or under the drawers.
A piece of paper was jammed under one. Finley smiled. Maybe something, maybe nothing. She retrieved the paper and replaced the drawer. Carefully smoothing out the page, she scanned the letterhead first.
Dyson and Mekler—Psychiatric Services. Atlanta, Georgia.
Finley smiled. “Atlanta, huh?” Just like the neighbor said.
The letter was dated in February of last year, congratulating Lena Marsh for joining their team. The position—receptionist—and the salary were mentioned.
Finley pulled out her cell and called the number listed on the letterhead. It was after five thirty. She could only hope someone was still in the office.
“Dyson and Mekler.”
Finley breathed a sigh of relief. “Hello, yes. May I speak with Lena Marsh, please?”
“I’m afraid she doesn’t work here any longer. May I help you?”
Finley exhaled another woebegone sigh. “Oh my. This is quite the dilemma. You see, I work for an estate attorney’s office, and I have a very important document I need to deliver. This is the only phone number I have for her.”
