InSight

built in the fifties and sixties.”
    “I know what’s here, but I don’t know colors or styles. I don’t know pictures or books. It’s frustrating. I want to know him better.” Lucy took her hand and Abby felt Daisy right beside her, protective as always.
    “Okay, let’s see. Everything’s simple, not too cluttered with junk or personal objects. Nice furniture, no woman’s touch. The whole place is painted a warm taupe with white woodwork. White wood blinds, hardwood floors covered with oriental rugs ― machine made, but nice ― nothing fussy or frilly. Fracé signed and numbered prints on the walls.”
    “Is that good?” Abby asked, feeling ignorant of her mother’s business.
    “A well-known wildlife artist. Most of his art pieces are so technically realistic, they’re almost photographic. These are signed and numbered. Prints run anywhere from a hundred on up, within the range of a cop if he’s a collector, which he appears to be. He has some nice ones too. Hmm, good framing. I wonder where he got them done.”
    Abby heard Lucy take one off the wall. “I guess he bought them that way.”
    “Couldn’t resist, could you?”
    “Of course not. Curious if he took them to a competitor.”
    Abby shook her head and grinned as they walked into the bedroom. Luke was right. Her mother was a piece of work. She was glad Lucy came.
    “Taupe walls and sheets with a black and taupe comforter and a couple of woven throw pillows. Black leather chair and ottoman with a modern reading lamp. Very simple, very neat, very masculine. Nothing out of place. Clothes arranged neatly in the closet, next to yours. Not a lot of them but good quality,” she said, poking through.
    “God, Lucy, I can’t believe we’re doing this. I feel like the worst kind of voyeur.” She couldn’t help herself. Being at a disadvantage made her curious to know more about the man with whom she shared a bed.
    “Any woman in your situation would do the same thing, Abigael. How else would you know? Now if an ordinary woman like me did this, it would be inexcusable, but not you. Anyway, this is kind of fun.”
    “I bet you did it in Meyer’s house, didn’t you?”
    “Absolutely not. I would never do such a thing.”
    “You did, didn’t you?” The hesitation gave her away. “You did. Come on, fess up.”
    “Well…just a little. He wasn’t home. I know. I’m awful.”
    Abby laughed out loud. “I’m worried, Lucy. You’re becoming predictable.”
    “Do you think I’m growing up, Abigael?”
    “I hope not. I’ve kind of gotten used to you the way you are. Anything else I should know?”
    “Well, there’s a full bookcase. Let’s see, biographies—mostly of presidents or generals—books on politics and war. Oh, here’s an interesting one— The Letters of John and Abigail Adams , Abigail spelled with an i . How unoriginal. No sexy stuff, though. Bummer.”
    Lucy was, well, Lucy. Always doing or saying something that made Abby laugh, even though she knew a lot of her mother’s bravado covered up insecurities.
    “I’d say your man’s a bit on the serious side.”
    “Doesn’t Meyer read the same kind of books?”
    “I don’t give him much chance to read. By the end of the evening he’s too pooped to do anything but fall into bed and go to sleep. Of course, now things will be different, I guess, unless I can get him back to his old self.”
    Her wistful tone exposed a tinge of finality, a realization that Meyer’s old self might never re-emerge.
    “He’s coming along pretty well, though,” Lucy said.
    Abby reached for her and Lucy latched on to her hand. “He’ll come through. You watch. And it’s all because of you. I bet those evenings aren’t far from his mind either.”
    Lucy gave a little sniff. “They aren’t. At least that’s what he told me. I think he was trying to make me feel good, ’cause I don’t think things are working too well, if you know what I mean. We’ll see.”
    Too much information. Abby changed the subject back to Luke before she heard all about Lucy’s love life. She wouldn’t put it past her mother to test the waters, even after a few weeks.
    “What about photographs?” Abby asked. “Nothing tells more about a person than photos.”
    “There’s only one framed photo on the mantle. An old photo of a woman and two boys. Must be his mother and, does he have a brother?”
    “He did have, but he lost track of him.”
    “You’d think a cop could find his own brother if he