They passed an open pair of accordion doors that revealed a mismatched washer and dryer. The washer was avocado green, its enamel dull and chipped, and the dryer was stark white and shiny, brand-new. On top of the dryer was an overflowing basket of rumpled laundry.

It all looked so normal, like Antonia had just stepped out for a bit and would be back to fold the clothes soon.

But Violet knew she wasn’t coming back.

Rafe stopped outside a second door, this one only slightly ajar, and Violet watched as he tentatively touched his fingertips to it, nudging it open. The blinds covering the window were closed, and it was far too dark to see exactly what they were looking at. Violet strained against the shadows to get a better view. She settled her hand against Rafe’s shoulder as she eased forward, trying to see around him. Reaching inside, Rafe flipped on the light switch, filling the room with harsh overhead light.

That was when Violet saw the black smudges, like ebony feathers that coated nearly every surface. She’d never actually seen sooty film before, but she knew exactly what it was: fingerprint dust.

“You shouldn’t touch anything,” she told him, worrying about everything they’d already come in contact with. Would the police find their fingerprints and know they’d been there? She thought about wiping the light switch with the sleeve of her jacket, but when she turned to look at it, it too was smeared in a layer of the sticky black powder.

Rafe ignored her warning and barged inside, already sliding his hands—his fingers—over nearly every surface of the bedroom.

“This is it.” Violet’s voice rasped against her throat. “This is her bedroom.”

Rafe nodded, as if she’d been asking him a question as he reached for the top drawer of the nightstand and started sifting through bras and underwear. He probably didn’t hate this part of the job, Violet thought wryly.

The furniture in this room looked more like it belonged to a little girl than a college coed. Stark white and carved with flowers, the twin-sized headboard, the dresser, and nightstands were all part of a matched set. Violet guessed that Antonia had moved to this house from her parents’, bringing with her the bedroom set she’d grown up with. The comforter was more sophisticated, bright jewel tones made from raw silk, with matching throw pillows and satiny sheets.

Antonia’s room was tidier than the other one had been. Even in the aftermath of an investigation, with her belongings ransacked, there was a sense of order to the chaos. Her closet was neatly arranged, divided by clothing types—sweaters in one section, T-shirts in another, jackets and dresses each in their own designated spaces. Her jewelry was neatly organized in a polished lacquer jewelry box perched atop her dresser. And even her makeup had been compartmentalized in a tray on her vanity. Violet didn’t need Rafe’s special skills to tell her that Antonia had been a bit of a neat freak.

Violet watched as Rafe left his fingerprints on nearly every possible surface, but she was much more cautious with her own. She kept the sleeves of her hoodie pulled down over her hands. When she opened the vanity’s drawer to get a peek inside, she used the fabric as a barrier between her and the knob, trying to avoid leaving any physical evidence that she’d been there at all.

“Are you almost finished?” she finally asked, when they seemed to be getting nowhere. She watched as Rafe thumbed through the pages of a paperback romance novel. “Or do you have a thing for sexy, half-naked pirates?” she asked, pointing to the book’s cover.

Rafe scowled as he flipped the book over, sparing only a superficial glance at the shirtless swashbuckler with flowing blonde hair. “Not yet.” He frowned.

“Not yet, you don’t have a thing for pirates?” She grinned meaningfully. “Or not yet, you’re not finished?”

Rafe shook his head, ignoring her pitiful attempt at cracking a joke as he flipped to the back of the book, fanning through the pages, his concentration rapt. “Hold on. I think there’s something here.”

He didn’t have time to find what he was looking for, as Krystal came bounding breathlessly into the bedroom. “Someone’s here! I think we’ve been caught.”

But it was already too late. A deep voice boomed from over Krystal’s shoulder, and Violet saw Krystal’s eyes bulge so far she thought they were going to pop.

“What are you kids doing here? This is a crime scene. Didn’t you see the tape?”

Flinching, Violet watched as Rafe hid the paperback behind his back. Her heart catapulted into her throat as she turned and saw the police officer in his uniform, framed by the doorway to the bedroom, eyeing them suspiciously.

Krystal stood beside Rafe with her hands up, like she was already under arrest. “I swear we weren’t doing anything, sir. Just trying to help.”

That was when Violet saw it. A tiny slip of paper drifting gently to the floor from between the pages of the book Rafe was concealing. No one else seemed to have noticed it.

“Helping, huh?” He glanced at Rafe, his voice demanding. “What do you have there, son?”

Rafe sighed but withdrew the paperback, holding it out to the officer. “A really good romance novel,” he drawled as he tossed the book on the floor between them. It landed on the carpet at the man’s feet with a dull thud.

Violet moved quickly then, bending down to pick up the book with one hand, and discreetly snatching the small slip of paper with the other one. When she stood back up, she held out the paperback, her expression earnest. “Here you go.”