Page 89 of Tessa and Nash

We search.

At first, it’s methodical.

Tessa checks the drawers quickly and efficiently, opening each one, scanning the contents, closing it, then moving to the next without wasting a motion.

I’m slower because my brain keeps getting snagged on dumb things. Such as how the wallpaper in the hallway is faded but still pretty, or how someone took the time to fold a blanket on the back of a chair, even though nobody is sitting here.

We check the kitchen.

It’s small, outdated, but clean. Cupboards with chipped paint. A sink that hasn’t been used in a while because the drain smells dry. A fridge that’s empty except for a box of baking soda.

“Someone definitely comes here regularly,” I finally murmur.

Tessa opens a cabinet, finds neatly stacked plates, then shuts it again with a little too much force. “Maybe.”

“That’s a yes.”

“It’s an assumption,” she says tightly. “Stop assuming.”

I watch her for a beat, then I nod. “Okay. No assuming.”

Her shoulders drop just a fraction. She’s relieved I didn’t push.

But we both know she’s thinking it too.

Upstairs, there are bedrooms.

One with a floral bedspread and a quilt folded at the foot, untouched. Another with twin beds and a dusty toy truck on a shelf. The kid who played with it put it down and never came back.

And then a room that makes Tessa pause in the doorway.

It’s an office.

A desk beneath a window. Shelves lined with books. Boxes labeled in tidy handwriting. A lamp that probably hasn’t been turned on in years.

Tessa stands there, silent, and the silence is different from before. It’s heavier. Personal.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know.” A shudder runs through her. “This place is just… strange. But come on, let’s see what we can find.”

Hours pass in a strange, contained way, as if time moves differently in this house.

We open boxes. We flip through ledgers. We find old bills, receipts, letters that mean nothing without context. Most of it is mundane. Household expenses. Repairs. Fence posts. Feed orders.

History in small bites.

Tessa sits cross-legged on the floor at one point, flipping through a folder of photocopied deeds with a speed that makes my head spin. Her braid slips over her shoulder. There’s a smudge of dust on her cheek.

I have a sudden urge to wipe it off with my thumb.

Which is wildly inappropriate.

Also dangerous.

So I don’t.

Instead, I lean against the desk, pretending my heart isn’t doing something idiotic.