BOOK 7

Rachel stood alone in the middle of Jackson’s immense living room, absorbing facts about him that he would never have revealed on his own. White mini-blinds on the patio door blended with the off-white walls. He hadn’t bothered with pictures or drapes to relieve the bleached color. The couch, set at a haphazard angle in the middle of the room, was a burlap, Rent-to-Own special that no one in their right mind would ever buy. Or at least, no one with any taste. A veneered walnut-brown end table supported a pastel lamp that she guessed dated from the 60s. He didn’t own a coffee table. The room seemed a contradiction to the man she thought she was coming to know.

She made a slow turn, noticing the lack of personal mementos, framed photographs, anything that would allude to a hobby or special interest. No books or magazines. A pile of folders and newspapers tossed on the floor was the only evidence that the place was inhabited at all. She couldn’t imagine anyone living here. It was as if J