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She didn’t like who she had become. It was no way to live.

“The sheriff was here and released Leigh’s desk,” Sam said when she stepped into the office. His sleeves were already rolled up as if he’d been there for hours already. “Can you please go through it and separate business into one box and personal into another. I’d like to turn over her personal effects to her emergency contact.”

“Can do,” she said, tucking her purse next to the small sofa where they’d set up her temporary table. “Am I looking for anything in particular?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Sam replied. “And Alli, it’s fine to go get a cup of coffee or even a bit of breakfast from the cafeteria before you start. I try not to be a clock-watcher. To me, the results are the most important thing, not how long it did or didn’t take you to do it.”

“I like that,” she said. “It seems like a fair way to look at things.”

“Effort can be a subjective measurement,” Sam explained. “What if someone makes the job look easy? But results are a tangible thing. It’s either complete or it’s not. Unfortunately, not all of our jobs are measurable like that, but for the parts that are…”

She’d already had her coffee from the drive to the office and eaten a granola bar in the car, so she was ready to go.

Sam had left two printer paper boxes on her desk with a yellow Post-it note stuck to each lid, one for personal effects and the other for work-related items.

She placed the boxes on the floor next to the desk and then stood for a moment, hands at her sides, taking inventory.

What could she learn about Leigh Gabler from her desk alone? The former journalist couldn’t help asking the question, even if it was only in her mind.

The desk was a study in controlled minimalism. A pair of steel-rimmed glasses beside the monitor, the lenses turned upward as if waiting to be picked up. A half-used tube of hand lotion sat next to a ceramic dish of paper clips.

Under the desk, tucked into a reusable grocery bag with the logo of a local grocery store, was a pair of worn running shoes, the laces still tied in double knots. The coffee mug was ceramic, printed with the Boston skyline in faded blue, a thin brown ring staining the inside where the last pour had dried. A small succulent in a terracotta pot occupied the far corner, its leaves fat and green. It appeared to be healthy and well cared for.

Where to start?

The top drawer? Why not?

Pens were sorted by color in a plastic organizer that had seen better days. Black, blue, red, green. A mechanical pencil with no lead. A spare set of reading glasses, the arms folded inward. A Red Sox schedule from the current season, creased along the center fold, a few dates circled in pencil. She placed the schedule into the personal effects box and made a mental note to clean out the Boston mug before packing it away as well. She didn’t want to pack a dirty cup. The reading glasses were also placed in the personal box, carefully wrapped in a few tissues from the box on the credenza behind her.

The second drawer held office supplies. A stapler. A box of staples. A roll of Scotch tape. A letter opener with a wooden handle with the Winslow Financial logo on it. Three highlighters, all yellow. Alli preferred pink.

A sticky note pad, half-used, the top sheet blank. Allison lifted the pad and found another note beneath it, written in Leigh’s neat block letters: Call Dr. Marsh — Thursday. She set the note in the box.

The third drawer was mostly empty. A bottle of ibuprofen, unopened. A travel-sized pack of tissues. A tube of lip balm. A hair tie. Allison placed each item in the box without pausing.

The bottom right drawer was heavier than the others. It slid open with some resistance, catching once on its track. Inside, a manila folder lay flat, its tab labeled Miscellaneous Correspondence in Leigh’s handwriting. Allison lifted it and set it on the desk. Beneath it, something caught the light.

A framed photograph, facedown.

The picture was a young woman standing on a harbor dock, mid-twenties, maybe younger. She wore cutoff shorts and a faded tank top, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun. The sun hit her full in the face, and she was laughing, one hand raised as if waving at whoever held the camera. Her cheekbones were sharp, her eyes wide-set and bright.

Allison turned the frame over. The back was blank. No name, no date, no inscription. Just the smooth cardboard backing and the metal clasps that held the photo in place.

She set the frame on top of the items in the personal box and reached back into the drawer. Her fingers brushed against something else. A second folder, thicker, its manila surface rougher from handling. The tab read F&M — Q3/Q4 Review.

Allison opened the folder, perusing the contents. Inside, there was a stack of what appeared to be financial contracts. Vendor invoices from companies she didn’t recognize, such as Pinnacle Mechanical, Standard HVAC, and Midcoast Electric. She flipped through them slowly, one by one.

Henry Allen’s name appeared on seven of the budget approval forms. His signature was tight and angular, crowded into the allotted space as if he’d signed in a hurry. The dates ranged from the previous year through the current month. The dollar amounts were substantial, five figures on most, one pushing six.

Allison closed the folder and placed it in the other box Sam would go through later. It didn’t take long for the desk to be cleaned out. There were cleaning supplies in the cabinet near Tracy’s desk, and Alli cleaned the inside and outside of the desk thoroughly before placing the office supplies back in the drawers.

The desk was all ready for her to occupy, but it didn’t feel right. This wasn’t her desk. Somehow, it was still Leigh’s.

She knocked on the door between her office and Sam’s, looking around the corner to where he was sitting at his desk, tapping away at his laptop.

“I’m finished,” she told him. “Did you want to look through the personal box before handing it over?”

“Anything interesting?”