Loves Me Not

SEVEN

AFTER
DETECTIVE BRETT PORTER

I walk throughout the house, examining everything. The police have already cleared the scene and established that nothing conspicuous happened here. No sign of forced entry, no broken windows, no signs of a struggle. Everything in the house is spotless and impeccable, just as Catalaina required it to be.

I make my way upstairs to the bedroom. Ben told me that the two of them moved in here last December, shortly after he proposed. He was living on his own in a quaint two-bedroom house. She was living alone in a studio apartment. They bought this place together, mostly from his impressive income.

The bedroom is just as I expected it to be, and matches what the rest of the house looks like. The bed is neatly made. Picture frames are lined across the dresser. Everything looks polished and I don't see a speck of dust anywhere. The room looks so uninhabited that it's almost unsettling. Like one of those show homes you see in the stores that are put on display for buyers to gawk at. How is it that two human beings live here?

I open the closet doors and take a peek inside. As far as I can tell, there are no clothes missing. Every hanger holds a piece of clothing. I open the drawers of the dresser. More clothes neatly folded. It appears that she didn't pack a bag and disappear with her wardrobe. However, if she did leave, she sure didn't bring much.

I move to the ensuite. Again, impeccable. The trash has been taken out probably a day or two before. The sink is polished and shining. The towels are perfectly folded on the countertop. Nothing is out of place.

I start opening drawers and cupboards, looking for any sign of life. I find tampons and birth control packets. I find Q-tips and makeup wipes. I find hair spray and hair gels, face creams and moisturizers, makeup brushes and face masks. The only sign of Ben's presence here is the shaving gel and men's shampoo.

After leaving the bedroom, I wander down the hall and find the spare bedroom, which Ben tells me Catalaina uses as her work space. "She goes there when she needs quiet time," he said. And apparently, that is often. If I'm going to find anything on Catalaina, it has to be in this room.

It's painted a pale shade of blue. Dark curtains hang to the sides of the window. There's a bed to the far right, and a desk next to it. On the desk is a laptop, a notepad, pieces of paper, pens, stationary. I open the drawers. More paper, folders, and books. I sit down at the desk and stare at the space in front of me. After a moment of silent deliberation, I open the laptop. The screen opens to a lock screen. I'll have to get one of the tech guys to get into it.

I close the laptop and open one of the notebooks that sit on the desk. Almost the entire thing is filled with writing. Thoughts, ideas, poetry. I open the purple day-planner and scan the pages for what Catalaina does in her spare time. Work, meetings, coffee dates, appointments. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the different names and appointments – there are quite a few of those. Wednesday evening is starred and has the letter R written in the blank space. Then Friday is starred and has the letter L. The following Tuesday there's an appointment, but no name or location, just a time: 5:45 p.m.

I close the day-planner and go through the drawers once more. I'm looking for one thing in particular: An envelope containing a certain piece of paper.

Nothing in the drawers. I stand up and walk towards the bed. I check under the pillows, under the mattress, under the bed. Nothing.

I nearly ransack the entire room, certain that it has to be in here somewhere. I stand up once again and look towards the bookshelf that sits in the other corner. I walk over and start pulling out books, opening them up. I pull out one book and there's a thin wad of cash stashed in there. I count it out: two hundred and fifty dollars.

I continue doing this, pulling out all of the books and opening them up. There's small amounts of cash hidden in at least seven of them, adding up to almost six hundred dollars.

Why was she stashing money away? Was she hiding it from Ben? Planning to take off somewhere?

It isn't until half the row of books is on the floor and the shelf is nearly empty that I see the empty space behind where the books sit. I reach my hand back and feel around. My heart nearly jumps in my chest when my fingers touch paper.

I grab it and pull it out. Sure enough, it's exactly what I've been searching for. A plain white enveloped that reads in dainty cursive: Only to be opened in the event of my death. I stand there for a moment, contemplating whether to open it or not. Yes, it's an invasion of privacy if this is all one big misunderstanding. But as of this moment, Catalaina Kittridge has been missing for over thirty-five hours. I believe that as the lead detective looking into her disappearance, my authority trumps her privacy.

I tear the letter open.