“They live in Cottonwood, which is closer to you than it is to me. I have a doctor’s appointment in forty minutes, so I don’t have time to get down there and back. All you have to do is reassure her he’s cooled down. He said he talked to her this morning ’til he was blue in the face. He thinks she’s close to a nervous breakdown.”

“What if I knock and he comes to the door? He’s already in a rage.”

“He’s not home. He called me from work. He has meetings this morning and he won’t be free until noon. He’s making his annual photographic retreat and he leaves town first thing in the morning. He’s taking the afternoon off work to get everything done. I wouldn’t press you to go down there, but he reminded me in the past she’s talked about, you know, doing away with herself.”

I could feel a tickle on the back of my neck, a spider of fear crawling along my collar.

“Give me the address and phone number.”

•   •   •

The drive to Cottonwood took less than fifteen minutes. I wasn’t sure what Celeste would make of my appearance on her doorstep. Her fight with Ned was obviously none of my business, but if she didn’t want to talk to me, she could simply say so. I cruised the neighborhood, searching for the house number, which fell in the middle of the block. I parked on the nearest side street and walked back.

Celeste and Ned Lowe lived in what was probably a sixteen-hundred-square-foot one-story board-and-batten house painted a soft gray, with a shake roof, solar panels, and a living room with a bay window. I was guessing two bedrooms, two baths, and a kitchen in desperate need of rehabilitation. There was no sign of Ned’s black sedan in the driveway. The garage doors were closed and I had no way of knowing if his car and hers were tucked away inside. I’d have to take April’s word for his being tied up at work.

I rang the bell, staring out at the driveway while I waited. There was an older-model aluminum-and-galvanized-steel Argosy Motorhome parked in the side yard, white with a brown stripe that ran around its middle. The back end of the vehicle was rounded, and a unit affixed to the top suggested a working air conditioner. The license plate read FOTO BIZ, which I assumed referred to Ned’s photography.

Decals from countless tourist stops had been applied in a tidy line along the brown painted stripe. This was a history of Ned’s travels spelled out one town at a time in a series of slogans. FALLOWAY, TX: HAPPIEST LITTLE CITY IN THE WEST. PARADISE, AZ: GHOST TOWN OF COCHISE COUNTY. PRAIRIE, NV: HOST OF THE 1985 WILD WEST RODEO.

The door was opened and Celeste stared out at me, fair-haired and pale.

“Celeste?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Kinsey. I’m a friend of April’s. She asked me to stop by and make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“May I come in?”

She didn’t look me in the eye and she didn’t reply, but she didn’t close the door in my face, which I took as a good sign. She considered my request and then stepped back. I entered the house and followed her into the living room, noting that she sat in a chair that allowed her to keep an eye on the street through the picture window in the front. She was tense and thin in the manner of someone with an eating disorder. Her dark eyes were at odds with her fair coloring and seemed enormous in the delicate oval of her face.

“Are you expecting Ned? April told me he’s tied up in meetings until noon.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. He says things like that all the time and then pops in unexpectedly, hoping to catch me unawares. He likes to keep me on my toes.”

On the wall behind her, there were two enlarged black-and-white photographs that I assumed were Ned’s. Over the fireplace, there were two more in stark black frames. He was apparently fascinated with rock formations: limestone worn down by chemical weathering; sedimentary layers undulating along a ridge; granite outcroppings; a massive sandstone bed that had eroded into a single towering crag. Striking, but cold.

“Are those his?”

She nodded. “He hopes to retire from his sales job and make a living from his photography. That’s part of what he does on his annual treks: he goes to galleries to show his portfolio.”

Her tone of voice had the flat quality of someone reading from a script. She seemed to wear her passivity like a Kevlar vest. Getting through to her would be impossible unless I could find a way to gain her trust. “Do his prints sell?”

Her smile was brief. “Lately, they have.”

“April says he’s leaving tomorrow.”