Fresh yellow and white flowers stood in a mason jar on the coffee table, stems freshly trimmed. A stack of mail rested beside a pair of reading glasses.

Sunlight slipped through a gap in the curtains and stretched across a braided rug without a trace of dust.

Someone lived here.

I set down my toolbox. In the kitchen, two plates rested in the drying rack. Two mugs. Silverware arranged on a dish towel. A refrigerator hummed in the corner, and when I opened it I found milk, soup in a plastic container, eggs, half a lemon, and several prescription bottles on the top shelf.

The labels all read Carol Martinez. The address was 127 Driftwood Lane.

I stood with one hand on the handle, trying to force the facts together. Helen had left me a cabin. The cabin was occupied. Someone named Carol Martinez received mail here.