Page 24 of The Locked Ward

Before I begin my search, I head down to the lobby and tell the concierge that I’ve been instructed to gather some paperwork and other items from Georgia’s apartment.

“I may be here quite a while over the next few days,” I say, trying to convey a touch of exasperation.

“No problem,” he tells me. His face is pleasantly blank, but I’m sure he’s bursting with questions. I decide to give him one tiny detail, a way of incurring a favor in case I need something from him later.

“The police tore apart her place, so it’s taking longer than it should.”

He leans forward. “I was the one who let them in when they showed me the warrant,” he says importantly.

I nod. “I’ve also got to gather some clothes to bring to Georgia, since she’s off suicide watch.”

His eyes widen. He’s clearly delighted I’ve given him a tidbit he can share.

I take note of the name on his plate affixed to his chest pocket: “Thanks for everything, Gavin.”

Then I go back upstairs, and as I enter Georgia’s apartment, I turn on a few more lights, since it’s dark out now. I decide to start my search in Georgia’s office. I figure I’ll have my best shot at finding tangible information there.

Her workspace is done in shades of black onyx and cream, with four bouclé swivel chairs surrounding a round table.

An arrangement of crimson-tipped roses that are beginning to weep petals is overturned on the table, with water puddled around it.

There’s a small desk off to one side with a computer mouse resting atop it, but no computer.

The police must have taken it during their search.

On Georgia’s walls are framed cinema posters of classic love stories—Rhett and Scarlett from Gone with the Wind , Ilsa and Rick from Casablanca , and Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr from An Affair to Remember .

There’s a bookshelf in the corner, but instead of books, it’s clearly intended for dozens of white fabric-covered binders. All of them have been pulled out and are scattered on the floor. It makes me wonder if police searches are deliberately messy.

I clean up the flowers, then pick up one of the binders. The name of a couple— Anna and Matthew —is embossed in gold on the cover. I flip through each page. Then I pick up another binder and look through it, then another.

Each contains a love story; it traces the path a couple took from engagement to ceremony.

There are invitations to engagement parties and sample menus.

Brochures for all sorts of wedding venues, from historical homes to luxury modern hotels.

Images and sketches of gowns and veils. Scraps of fabrics and copies of handwritten vows.

Surely Georgia must have had all of this documented on her computer. This system of filing is as antiquated as the classic movie images on her walls.

Perhaps the folders were a backup for her electronic files, a tangible and lovely record of the special days she created.

Could the binder be what the bride-to-be and her mother are so desperately seeking? It makes sense, if Georgia and her computer disappeared and they need critical information about the upcoming wedding.

I reach into my purse and pull out the sheet of paper the concierge handed to me.

Caroline Evers has called, emailed, and come to the building in person seven times in the past few days.

She’s desperate to get back something from this apartment. And I’m desperate to learn more about Georgia. So we each have something the other one wants.

I reach into my bag for my cell phone and dial her number.

She picks up on the second ring, sounding rushed: “Hello?”

“Hi, Caroline, this is Amanda. I’m returning the messages you left for Georgia Cartwright. I’d love to help you if I can.”

“Oh, thank God! Do you have the Bible?”

“Sorry?” I ask.

“My great-grandparents’ Bible. Georgia had it—she was going to get the cover repaired so we could use it for a reading.”

“Okay, I’ll look for it and—”

She cuts me off. “Wait, are you in Georgia’s apartment now?

Because I can be there in twenty minutes.

” She doesn’t let me reply before continuing, “That Bible has been in my family for more than a hundred years. Every birth, death, wedding—it’s all written down on the first few pages. I cannot lose it.”

“I understand,” I say. I want to meet Caroline, but not until I’ve had more time alone in Georgia’s place. “I can meet you at Georgia’s apartment tomorrow morning. Say 10 A.M. ? We’ll find the Bible.”

“Yes.” She exhales. “I’ll be there.”

I’m about to hang up when she lets out a half laugh. “I mean, who would’ve thought my wedding planner would be accused of murder two weeks before my wedding? It’s insane!”

“It is,” I agree.

“Maybe not my best choice of words… I mean, you must know Georgia pretty well, right?”

In some ways, better than you can imagine , I think. But all I say is, “Not that well. I never saw this coming.”

“Right? She’s this stunning, perfect woman. How does someone like that snap?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe everyone has a breaking point.”

“How do you know her?” Caroline asks.

I make a split-second decision. I deviate from my planned cover to imply I’m working with Georgia’s lawyer. If Caroline thinks I’m here in some official capacity, she might be less forthright.

“We’re friends,” I say. “I’m a neighbor. It’s why she gave me an extra set of her keys, in case she ever got locked out.”

“Oh, wow. Well, I have to say I’m happy she did. Have you heard whether they’re going to try her for murder? Someone was saying on a talk show she may end up in a mental institution for life.”

“I don’t know,” I reply.

“I— Oh, shoot, that’s my fiancé calling. I’ve got to run. But I’ll see you at 10 tomorrow.”

“See you then.” I hang up and get back to work.

I spend the next couple of hours looking through every binder in Georgia’s office, lining them up on the bookshelf as I finish.

I’m stunned—and a little disgusted—by the money some people lay out for a few hours of celebration.

The bar bills alone are more than what Sweetbay’s brings in during a month.

There are calligraphed invitations hand-delivered in white satin boxes, Russian caviar stations, floral canopies made of orchids and wisteria over custom-built dance floors, and five-figure gowns.

One bride-to-be flew her bridesmaids to Canyon Ranch Spa for a few days of pampering the week before the wedding.

Another sent each of her four hundred guests home with favor bags containing a bottle of Veuve and a sterling-silver Tiffany photo frame.

I find the binder labeled Caroline and Hayden toward the bottom of the pile. I open it and see a receipt tucked into the front pocket from Stanley Bookbinding.

I use my phone to google the address. It isn’t far away.

And though it closed a few hours ago, it opens again at 9 A.M. Which means I can get the Bible before Caroline shows up tomorrow.

If I do, she’ll be relieved and will no longer have a reason to rush out.

Perhaps she’ll be in a chatty mood again.

My stomach rumbles, and I realize I’ve missed lunch and dinner. It’s past 10 P.M. now.

I could order DoorDash. Instead, I find myself drawn into Georgia’s kitchen.

I take the eggs out of her refrigerator; according to the expiration date stamped on the cardboard container, they’re still fresh.

I open a lower cabinet and see the frying pan I need.

I easily locate her olive oil, spatula, and a small bowl and whisk.

It’s almost like I already know my way around my sister’s kitchen.

I uncork the bottle of wine and sniff. It hasn’t turned. I pour a glass and sip it while my scrambled eggs cook. I don’t have a nose for wine, but I’m confident of this: It tastes like money.

When my eggs are done, I sprinkle some capers over them and dig in. As I take the last bite, a deep wave of fatigue hits me. I haven’t been sleeping well since I learned about my sister, and my emotions have been ricocheting all over the place.

I take my dishes to the sink and rinse them before putting them in the dishwasher; then, almost as if in a trance, I walk into Georgia’s bedroom.

In the built-in drawers in her closet I find several nightgowns. I choose one made of pale blue silk.

I was going to lend Georgia my clothes. Now I’m borrowing hers. As sisters do.

I take off my jeans and T-shirt and bra, folding them and putting them on a closet shelf. Then I slip on the delicate nightgown, the silk whispering as it slides down my skin.

I wrestle the mattress onto the bed frame before finding fresh sheets in the linen closet and making her bed.

Then I step into the gorgeous ensuite bathroom that boasts a soaking tub, an oversized shower, and a marble-topped vanity.

Georgia’s first drawer is for her cosmetics—for a naturally gorgeous woman, she sure has a lot—and the next one is filled with lotions, cleansers, and scrubs.

I use my index finger to scrub my teeth with minty toothpaste, then turn off the light.

I slip beneath her fluffy, pristine white comforter. I barely have the energy to turn off the little lamp on the nightstand before I plunge into a sleep so deep and instant it’s as if I’ve been drugged.