Page 77 of If You're Reading This

Logan and Duke glanced at each other before turning toward the man.

A neighbor, an older gentleman in his seventies, stood on the porch next door holding a steaming mug of coffee. He wore a thick flannel robe over pajama pants and slippers, clearly having stepped outside to see what the commotion was about.

His gray hair stuck up at odd angles, and he had the look of someone who’d been watching through his window before deciding to come out.

Maybe he was just the person they needed to speak with.

Logan trotted across the snow to close the space between them. “We are. Have you seen him recently?”

The man rubbed his stubbly chin as he shook his head. “Can’t say I have. I had to bring his trash cans in for him yesterday, as a matter of fact.”

“When was trash day?” Logan asked.

“Monday,” the man said. “When he hadn’t taken the cans in by Wednesday, I figured something was up. That maybe he wasn’t feeling well or something. I figured I’d be neighborly.”

“Is that unlike him?” Duke asked. “To leave the cans out so long?”

“Not necessarily, but all those Amazon packages that are piling up . . . that’s a first. He normally don’t let them sit like that.”

“How long has it been since you last saw him?” Logan continued to push.

“I don’t recall exactly. But it’s been several days now. I thought about checking on him, but I haven’t yet. Don’t want to be nosy. People like their privacy nowadays.”

“I’ve actually got a key to his place, so I’ll check on him for you,” Logan said. “But I have a feeling he’s not at home.”

“I hope he’s okay. He’s always been a strange one, but I wouldn’t wish any harm on him.”

This killer may not have felt the same way, Logan mused.

As Logan leaned closer to the door, using his lock-picking kit, Duke glanced around, keeping lookout and blocking the neighbor’s view.

The lock clicked, and Logan straightened.

He slid his kit back into his pocket and twisted the handle.

Then he stepped into Reuben’s house, unsure what he expected to see.

The place felt frozen in time. Dishes were in the sink, a half-eaten TV dinner sat on the coffee table, and mail lay scattered on the floor near the sofa as if Walsh had simply vanished mid-routine.

There was also camera equipment, and on the coffee table, photos had been spread.

Not Morgan’s photos.

No, these photos weren’t nearly as good. The composition and lighting were wrong. The horizon was often crooked. A finger had snuck into the corner of one.

But it was the walls that made Logan’s stomach drop. Dozens of Morgan’s photographs were taped up haphazardly, some torn from magazines, others expensive gallery prints.

A calendar by the kitchen showed her exhibition dates marked in red, and a corkboard was covered with what looked like surveillance notes: “M left gallery 6:47 p.m.,” “Photo shoot at Denali. Saw a blue Honda.”

“A blue Honda?” Duke murmured. “The killer’s?”

“It seems like a possibility—and maybe one of the first clues as to who this guy might be. Now the question is—how do we narrow down who owns this car? There are probably hundreds of them on the road here.”

Disappointment pressed on him.

Maybe that clue wouldn’t get them very far after all.

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