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I fix the pillow. “Such as?”
“I’ll know it when I find it.” Amelia shrugs, her attention already back on the task at hand.
She lifts up a vent grate, huffs out a disappointed breath, then leaves it and wanders into the bedroom. I follow her inside the plain beige room. The only color is the bed spread which is a forest green.
“This is revolting,” Amelia mutters.
“What is?”
“I had no idea he was such a clean freak.”
I snort, taking in the room.
Nothing is amiss. Nothing out of place. But Amelia fixes that by going through every single one of his drawers. In the back of one, she finds a wad of cash totaling two thousand dollars. Interesting. Why would he want a junky ring if he had two thousand dollars in cash laying around?
“Why did he say he wanted the ring?” I ask Amelia.
“He didn’t.” She wads the cash back up. “He was just spouting nonsense about getting to it before his boss did.”
His boss? I text Cruz to look into his boss.
Amelia puts the money back and makes a note on her phone.
“Planning to steal that later?” I ask. “Perhaps when I’m not looking?”
“I’m making a list of things to tell his parents when I eventually meet them.” She’s completely serious, and now I feel like a jerk for teasing her at a time like this. This is how she’s processing her loss. Her therapy. I shut my mouth and step back, allowing her to do what she needs.
While she dumps out every desk drawer and combs through the contents, I conduct my own search. Noting the strong scent of the single eucalyptus plant in the window. The direction the one photograph on the dresser faces, toward the bed. The person in the photo, Amelia. It’s been in that place so long the dust has gathered around it. The bed has no indents and the pillow looks like it hasn’t been slept on for a few days. But the bathroom is a different story. Cologne, face wash, cream, and about twenty different bottles of hair product litter the small vanity counter.
I pick up a bottle. Volumizer? Is that a thing men use?
I glance in the mirror at my short brown hair. Do I need volumizer?
This is ridiculous. I replace the bottle and finish my search of the bathroom. I return to the bedroom to see Amelia ripping off the comforter and sheets and dropping them in a pile on the floor.
“Are you going to put those back on when you're done with your search?” I ask as she kneels on the ground, butt up in the air, face smashed against the carpet to peer under the bed.
“Of course.”
“Follow-up question: Do you know how to make a bed?”
“It depends.” She shoves her arms between the mattress and box spring and pops her head up to look at me, her wild hairs flying around her face. “Is the bed empty or being used?”
My lips curl. “Why would you make a bed with someone in it?”
“Better question, why wouldn’t you make a bed with someone in it?”
This woman. I shake my head and grab a sheet, untangling it from the comforter.
Amelia leaves the bed for me to remake and goes into the bathroom, opening and closing the drawers. “Ah!” she screams.
I jump up from where I’m replacing the sheets and ram my knee into the bed frame. Ignoring the pain, I sprint into the bathroom.
“What’s wrong?”
She turns, and this time I scream. She’s Michael Meyers, minus the kitchen knife. “What is that?” I fall back into the door jam. Because I have a dead leg, of course.
“It’s my anti-aging face mask. I knew he stole it. Ooh I’ll kill him!”