Page 73 of Lorenzo

The apartment is dark, but city light comes through the windows. I wait until my eyes adjust before turning on a small lamp far enough away from the windows that anyone looking up wouldn't see it.

The room looks exactly like Genevieve’s public life.

Ordinary. Curated.

The furniture fits the space. Nothing is oversized or placed where it blocks the room. Framed photographs sit on a shelf beside a few books and small objects chosen either for sentiment or because someone needed to fill an empty surface.

No clutter. No dishes left in the sink. No shoes abandoned near the door.

Even after the police search, the apartment is still neat.

I remain near the entrance and take it in before moving.

The police have been through here. Drawers sit slightly uneven. One cabinet door is not closed all the way. A stack of papers on a side table is not aligned with the edge, which seems like it would be a Genevieve thing to do.

That could all be from the search.

I need to separate what they disturbed from what mattered before they arrived.

The cops don't know what they're looking for. I don't either, I suppose, but I know more than they do.

I take out my phone and photograph the room from the doorway.

Then I begin my search.

Genevieve’s apartment tells me the same story of her life that I found online. The woman in the photographs lived here. The same clothes likely appear in the closet. The same pieces of furniture show up in the backgrounds of posts. The framed pictures match people whose names I already know.

The front room is where police likely spent the least amount of time. There is no obvious place to hide anything important, and nothing suggests a struggle occurred here.

I check anyway.

Behind frames. Under furniture. Inside books that open naturally to their spines. Beneath the bottom drawer of the small cabinet near the wall.

Nothing.

I move into the kitchen.

The refrigerator contains food that has begun to spoil. Containers from recent meals. Produce. A bottle of wine with less than half remaining.

No bad habits that I can see. No unusual amount of food. No repeated purchases suggesting another person stayed here regularly.

The counters are bare except for the appliances that live there.

I open drawers and cabinets without shifting more than necessary. The contents are organized but not obsessively so. Utensils have migrated into the wrong sections. One cabinet holds mismatched glasses. A chipped plate sits beneath newer ones.

Oddly, it makes me feel better after what I saw in Genevieve's public profiles.

Her life looked almost too orderly from the outside, but this is lived in. Small inconsistencies, ordinary neglect. Proof that the polished images did not extend to every aspect of her life.

I close the cabinet and move toward the bedroom.

The door is open. Police searched this room thoroughly. Several drawers remain pulled out an inch or two. Clothing inside has been disturbed. The bedding is rumpled in a way that does not look like it would if she rolled out of bed and didn't make it.

I stop just inside.

This is where Rachel found the dress.

It had belonged to Genevieve. Rachel wore it to the club, then into the Halston with Alessio.