Into the Dark. Rick Mofina

      He damned well knew as he concentrated on the pain in Meadows’s face the way a patron absorbs the aftermath of it in a work of art, like Michelangelo’s Pietà. Bowen drank in Meadows’s pain, as he’d done with the fear of the woman he’d pulled from the car accident.

      “No,” Meadows said. “My daughter’s not there.”

      “Is she away at college?”

      Twisting the knife in the wound.

      “No.”

      “May I see the room?”

      Meadows hesitated as if waiting for the will to open the door.

      “Yes.”

      The room was cooler and smelled musty. Sunlight had caught the fine dust particles that were sent churning into the air when the door opened. On the wall, he saw a poster of Meryl Streep and a framed watercolor of flowers. He noticed the bulletin board with a calendar. Notes with hours under the word work were penned in for some dates.

      The walls were an opaque bluish-green. The single bed was made with a white comforter. A stuffed bear was the lone occupant. There was a white desk with a laptop, a jar full of paper money and change, labeled Tips. The closet was open and empty save for a tower of cardboard boxes, sagging from age and marked in felt-tip pen with Leeza’s Things.

      The room was a tomb to the life that had resided here.

      “That’s a good-sized closet,” Bowen said, turning to his guide.

      Meadows was oblivious. His eyes were going around the room as if he were seeing something from another time. He nodded slowly, took one last forlorn inventory before leading Bowen out and closing the door.

      They moved to the laundry room—“All the appliances are included”—then to the family room. It opened to the patio and a view of the hills. They stepped back outside and Meadows leaned against his picnic table and folded his arms across his chest.

      “It’s a good house. It’s a good neighborhood, a quiet family neighborhood,” he said as he contemplated the horizon. “Sorry, the agent’s better at showing the place. I’m not much of a people person.”

      “No, I imposed,” Bowen said. “May I ask why you’re selling?”