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Why?
    “My advice,” Burnett said cheerfully, “is to fix yourself something simple for dinner or order in a pizza, and have an early night. Familiarize yourself with where everything is. Make yourself comfortable here.” He smiled at her perceptively. “Stop thinking so much, Faith. Give yourself time.”
    She knew he was right. And she was even able to say goodbye to him calmly, promising to return to the hospital as scheduled in a few days for a checkup and another session with the physical therapist.
    Then she was alone.
    She locked the door, turned on the television in the living room for company and background noise, and wandered again through the apartment. This time, she looked more closely.
    Her initial puzzlement took on a chill of unease.
    There was no history here. No photographs, either displayed or tucked away in drawers. And very little to indicate her interests. A few books, mostly recent best-sellers that ran the gamut of genres, and many of those apparently unread.
    She found plenty of clothes in the drawers and closet, and the bathroom held the usual supplies of soap and shampoo, moisturizers and bubble bath and disposable razors, and a small toiletry bag of makeup containing the basics, all new or nearly so. A blowdryer and a curling iron were stowed in the cabinet below the sink.
    What there was not was evidence that a woman had lived here for more than a few weeks or months. No old lipsticks or dried-up mascaras in the drawers. No unused foundation compacts that had turned out to be the wrong shade. No nearly empty tubes of moisturizer or hand lotion. No fingernail polish or remover. No samples given out at cosmetics counters in practically every store in the world.
    Either Faith Parker was the neatest woman alive … or she had spent very little time here.
    She went into the living room and sat down at the small desk tucked away in a corner. The single drawer held only a few things. A small address book showing meager entries—names, addresses, and phone numbers that meant nothing to her. Her checkbook and a copy of her lease, both of which indicated that she had lived here for nearly eighteen months before the accident. There were regular deposits made on Fridays, obviously her salary, which was enough to live on without living particularly well; some months it appeared that ends had barely met. Checks had been written to the usual places, some of which matched entries in the address book. Grocery stores, department stores, hair salons, dentist, a couple of restaurants, a pharmacy, a women’s clinic, a computer store.
    A computer store.
    Faith looked slowly around the room with a frown. According to the register, she had bought a laptop computer on a payment plan only a few weeks before the accident. It should be here.
    It wasn’t.
    She’d had only a purse with her when she rammed her car into that embankment, they’d told her. So why wasn’t the computer here?
    On the heels of that question, the phone on the desk rang suddenly, startling her. Faith had to take a deep, steadying breath before she could pick up the receiver.
    “Miss Parker, this is Edward Sloan.” The lawyer’s voice was brisk. “Forgive me for disturbing you on your first day home, but I thought there was something you should know.”
    “What is it, Mr. Sloan?”
    “The service I hired to clean your apartment this week found it in … unusual disarray.”
    “Meaning I’m a slob?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.
    “No, Miss Parker, I think not. Many drawers had been emptied onto the floor, pillows and other things scattered about. It had all the earmarks of a burglary, perhaps interrupted in progress, since nothing appeared to have been taken. This was three days ago. Knowing you were still in the hospital, I took the liberty of acting in your stead. I reported the matter to the police, then met them at your apartment. They took the report, took photos of the place, and questioned others in