Randy White - Gone

Where are the things she doesn’t want anyone else to see?

Nathan had asked that question and he was right. Everyone has a secret place where they hide their most personal possessions-myself included. Unless Olivia had anticipated her rooms being searched, I had missed something. What?

I sat up and took a closer look at the desk. It was an antique office desk made of oiled oak, too masculine for most women but exactly the sort of thing I liked. Had Olivia sat here when she’d made entries in her journal? It still bothered me that her diary had ended so abruptly. Two entries on the same page, dated the week Ricky Meeks had arrived, then only blank pages afterward. Was it possible that she had written about their relationship but had torn the pages out for safekeeping? Yes. More likely, though, it was Meeks who had found the diary and destroyed any entries that had incriminated him.

I scooted the chair away from the desk and looked at the floor. For a diary, Olivia had used a common spiral notebook like students use in school. The kind that scatters tiny shards of paper when a page is ripped out. On my hands and knees, I found several such shards scattered like confetti beneath the desk, hidden from the maid’s broom.

Did it prove someone had taken pages from the diary? No… but it was evidence that it might have happened. If so, where were the missing pages?

I took a photo, then stood and checked the trash basket. Empty. Meeks wouldn’t have hidden the missing pages inside the desk, but Olivia might have done exactly that if the desk contained a safe hiding place.

I sat in the leather chair and went to work. One by one, I opened drawers, testing each for a false bottom. There were no secret compartments, but the large bottom file-sized drawer was locked. It didn’t take me long to find the key, which was hidden on a hook beneath the desk.

Inside the drawer was the private cache I’d hoped to find minus the missing diary pages-at first glance, anyway. There were several packets of letters tied in bundles with red ribbon. One batch might have been from the guy Olivia had dated during what Mr. Seasons referred to as “her rebellious stage,” the short period where she’d experimented with drugs-the dated postmarks matched up. They contained greeting cards or birthday cards, from the looks of the envelopes, the sort of stuff people don’t send by e-mail. There was a smaller stack from Olivia’s father-one letter from France, two from Monaco, one from Madrid-along with a few dozen envelopes that dated back to her middle school years, all from what were probably old girlfriends.

I didn’t take photos of the envelopes nor did I open even one. The prospect of reading Olivia’s private mail gave me the creeps, so I refused to invent an excuse to do it. After placing the letters on the desk, I then took out an ornate wooden box that might have been a jewelry case. Maybe the missing pages of her diary were inside.

Not even close. When I opened the lid and saw what was inside, my ears began to warm from embarrassment for Olivia… plus a mixture of embarrassment and guilt for myself. The day before, I’d experienced a similar reaction. It was when Loretta had intentionally shamed me by talking about the “electric candle” she’d found hidden among my clothing. Olivia, though, had been smarter. Instead of shoving her pleasurable items into a drawer, trusting that all people are decent, she’d protected her privacy with a locked door and a hidden key.

I felt sneaky and rude when I realized what I had stumbled onto. Even so, my eyes couldn’t help lingering on the items the girl had collected. There were several what Loretta had referred to as “gadgets.” Different shapes, petite sizes, two of them so unusually designed that it took me a moment to decipher their purpose. Only one was cheap enough to rely on a plug-in cord-a brand available at most pharmacies but that also could be found in a shoe box I now kept hidden on my top closet shelf. The other objects, though, appeared either soft and expensive or as complicated as computer games, which possibly explained why they required wall chargers.

Good for you, I thought, feeling even closer to Olivia than when I had fixated on her photo as an awkward, unhappy child. No risk of disappointment, or guilt, or clumsiness.

How well I knew the freedom that the privacy of my aloneness offered… and the comfort only my own imagination could provide. Olivia’s life was the same in that way, too. She had experienced the same physical loneliness. Probably the same frustrations and fears as well. It was such a powerful secret to share that my feelings of sneakiness vanished. I would not take photos of what I’d found, of course, but it felt okay to do what I was doing.

No longer embarrassed, I noted what else the box contained, using just my eyes, not my hands. Wedged among the pleasurable items was a vial of lotion, several DVDs in plain paper sleeves, what might have been magazine photos, and sheer lace panties folded on the bottom. True, I felt more sisterly toward Olivia, but I wasn’t going to rummage through her intimate things for the sake of lace panties or pictures of movie stars wearing tight jeans. The DVDs, though, were a different story. They were stacked faceup, easy to see if I was willing to use an index finger to flip through them.

I was willing. The nosy, bawdy woman who hides inside my head, though, was soon disappointed. Instead of sensual, erotic titles, the DVDs were unlabeled except for one, upon which, in Olivia’s hand, was written Orchid House , along with the date May 17 .

The date caught my eye because it was about two weeks after Meeks had arrived in Naples. Was it possible the girl had been recording the progress of her new orchid house and had accidentally-or intentionally-included video footage of Ricky?

Mr. Seasons had told me I could remove useful material from Olivia’s room as long as I cataloged it and returned it. I was holding several DVDs in both hands, my brain arguing with my conscience, when a voice asked from the doorway, “Find anything juicy? I did- maybe .”

The DVDs jumped from my hands and clattered to the floor, I was so startled. It was Nathan. Laughing as I knelt to retrieve the things, he said, “You’re not the only girl with a guilty conscience who’s sat at that desk. I found Olivia’s art studio.”

Too irritated to wonder what he meant, I replied, “How’s a man your size move so quiet? It’s not human-and just plain rude. Someone should tie a bell around your neck.”

Unfazed, Nathan was walking toward me, saying, “I didn’t risk asking the security guard why the studio’s padlocked. He was out back for some reason when I got there. So I had to wait until he was gone. Did you see him?”

I glanced at the window as I shook my head. Was there a chance the guard had seen me at Olivia’s desk? The possibility troubled me, but it was unlikely. I had checked the window several times.

“Her art studio’s the cottage next to the orchid house,” Nathan continued. “So I used a screwdriver and took off the hasp. He’ll never even know we were there unless you-” He stopped in midsentence, watching me slam the wooden box closed before he could see what was inside. “Hey,” he said, “what’d you find? You’re hiding something.”

Ignoring him, I returned the box to the drawer, stacked the packets of letters as I had found them, and then locked the drawer in too much of a hurry to remember I’d left the DVDs on the desk. “Turn your back,” I told Nathan.

“What?”

“You heard me. I found something of Olivia’s that’s private. And that’s the way it’s going to stay. Private.”

Exasperated but in a good-natured way, Nate spun around. While I hid the key under the desk, he couldn’t help chiding me, saying, “You’ll probably want to buy a new lock for her studio, too, if you’re feeling that protective. There’s a reason she doesn’t want anyone to see her paintings. You two ladies have a lot in common, Hannah. Just like I said.”