I thought about it.
The office had always been Ryan’s territory, but he had invited me in when he wanted to perform importance. The garage was cluttered, but not sacred. Linda disliked the basement because it was “damp,” though she had spent plenty of time criticizing how I stored things there.
Then I remembered the hallway closet.
Not large. Not remarkable. Just a narrow linen closet near the guest bathroom.
Three years earlier, I had tried to clean it out and found the back panel strangely loose. Ryan had snapped at me so sharply I had frozen with a stack of towels in my arms. Later he apologized with flowers and a story about childhood memories stored there, saying Linda had kept old things from his father and did not like them disturbed.
I looked toward the hallway.
“The linen closet,” I said.
For the first time all day, Linda moved.
It was tiny. A twitch of the hand. A tightening around the eyes.
Price noticed.
