Sam cleared his throat, garnering their attention. “This is George Atkins. His uncle owns Atkins Moving and Storage. Have a seat, George.” Sam pointed to the plush leather chair beside Lee’s.
Tall and pale, with bright red hair, George appeared nervous, his light blue eyes glancing around at his surroundings, and his right leg shook so fast when he sat down that Tessa wondered if he was on drugs.
Thankfully, Lee took over. He made quick introductions, and once that ritual was completed, George seemed to have controlled his spastic leg movements.
Not wasting a minute, Lee began his questions. “Tell me about that day, please. What you observed.” Direct, and to the point, Tessa waited for George to explain what he’d seen the day he’d packed her family’s life away, or that of her daughters, as she wasn’t sure if George had packed away Joel’s personal belongings. At this point, she wasn’t sure that it mattered.
George appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. When he’d worked for his uncle, according to Lee, he’d been young, so given the passage of time, she assumed this was probably a good guess.
He looked at Tessa before he spoke. She nodded, and he began his story.
“I was nervous when Uncle Walt told me I’d be coming with him to pack the place up. I . . . I’d watched the news, so I knew what had happened here. I packed up the kitchen and the dining room.” He paused as though he were looking to Tessa for permission to continue.
“It’s okay,” she said in a reassuring voice, though she felt anything but calm. “Please go on.”
“I went upstairs and started emptying the drawers. Clothes and stuff.” His face deepened to a bright pink shade. “I was curious, and well, I kinda wanted to . . . brag to my buddies about the job.”
Tessa wanted to smack him but controlled herself.
“Tell me where you found the sketchbooks,” Lee prompted.
George nodded. “They were in the closet.”
Tessa tried to recall if she had seen the sketchbooks the day she had raced through the house packing the essentials she would need for the girls’ extended stay in San Maribel. She had grabbed a couple of sketchbooks from Poppy’s desk and one from Piper’s night table, but she did not remember seeing one in either closet.
“Where in the closet?” Lee asked.
George’s face grew red. “The floor, under the board that’d been loosened.”
Tessa leaned to the edge of the love seat. Jill placed an arm around her shoulders.
“What do you mean?” she asked him. “There was no—”
“Would you be able to locate the board now?” Lee interrupted, holding up a hand to silence Tessa. “It’s very important,” he added.
Tessa thought that was putting it mildly.
“Show me,” Lee said, then stood. “Tessa, you might want to see this.”
“I certainly do,” she replied.
Without saying another word, they all followed Lee upstairs. Once they were inside Poppy’s bedroom, Tessa had to force herself not to cry, not to howl in utter pain at the sheer horridness of what they were doing, why they were there.
George hesitated as he approached the closet. “I’m sorry,” he said as he looked at Tessa.
She shook her head. “Just show me where you found those sketchbooks. You were doing your job,” she added, hoping to reassure him, even though she herself felt as panicky as she had when she had entered this very room yesterday.
He entered the walk-in closet. The floors were the same as they were before. Wide planks of oak that still appeared relatively new. George wedged himself into the far right corner of the closet, then bent over. Tessa held her breath as she watched as he removed a plank of wood at least eighteen inches long. He held the wood out to Lee. “It wasn’t this easy before.”
Lee examined the wood, then gave it to Sam. “Send this to Harry.”
“How were you able to spot this?” Tessa inquired. “I lived here and never saw any sign the floor had been tampered with.” Tessa was sure she would have noticed the loose board had it been here before, but again, she reminded herself, she didn’t routinely inspect the closet floors. Rosa cleaned in here. Possibly there would be an answer when Lee questioned her later.
“When I entered the closet, this piece of wood just stuck out like a sore thumb. The seams were . . . fresh. Like it’d been recently moved, or replaced. Knowing what’d happened here, well, I just thought I would have a look, and that’s when I found those art books.”
Lee nodded. “Did you look at the pictures?”
George’s face reddened again. “Yes. I did.”
“And why didn’t you report this to the police?” Sam interjected. “You knew a crime had been committed in this house.” His voice was tight, restrained, as though he was holding back a flood of anger.
“I called my uncle. He said to just do my job and pack the books away. You”—his expression stilled, grew serious—“you’d been arrested, and well, me and Uncle Walt just assumed . . .”
“What? You assumed this was just a little girl’s drawings that had been passed over? Dear God, didn’t you see what the drawings were? Surely you couldn’t have been that naive!” Tessa wanted to shake some sense into this idiot, but it was too late for that; plus, she didn’t want to have a charge of assault filed against her, which would certainly land her right back in prison.
George shook his head. “It was wrong. I know that now, and I told my uncle, but he said it was up to the police to locate evidence. If it had been important, he said, they would have found it. I packed the boxes, and when I heard you were being released, I told my uncle that if I was contacted,
