Looking around the apartment, she was stunned at the emptiness. “It’s so plain and tiny,” Gianna whispered.

“One bedroom, one bath,” answered Hawes. “There’s more in the bedroom. Looks like all he did was eat and sleep here.”

“But Uncle Saul was sending him money,” said Gianna. “I had the impression he didn’t want for anything.”

“What I gathered from my conversation with your uncle was that your father didn’t think like the rest of us. Maybe this is all he wanted.”

Who was my father?

Clearly he hadn’t been completely the man she remembered. She recalled nice cars and furniture and tons of clothing during her childhood. Her father had collected valuable books and art. So far this apartment didn’t have art or books. Saul had told her he was a different man, but seeing his living space drove the point home.

They moved down a narrow hall, stopping briefly to glance at an immaculate but tired-looking bathroom. One emerald-green towel hung perfectly centered on the towel rack. She looked away from the rust stains in the tub and sink. The entire apartment smelled like old dust, as if the carpet hadn’t been vacuumed thoroughly for the last decade.

Becker moved out of the way to let her into the bedroom.

Here was where her father had lived.

A double mattress lay on the floor; two new-looking sleeping bags covered it, clearly used as blankets. Two pillows, no pillowcases. Magazines and newspapers were scattered across the floor. Right next to the mattress was a footstool used as a nightstand. It held a tiny alarm clock, a school box filled with number-two pencils, and two Darth Vader PEZ dispensers.

He always loved Star Wars.

Did he see the new movies?

She’d never know.

Design sketches covered the walls. Some as big as movie posters, while others were on small sticky notes. She spotted two that had been drawn on napkins. Her father’s mind had never stopped figuring and creating. His ideas and computations on display. She looked at the closest sketch, unable to read her father’s cramped handwriting. The design made no sense to her.

“What is this?” She looked at Chris, who stepped closer and frowned at the drawing.

“I have no idea.” He looked at several of the drawings. “I don’t know what any of this is. Either your father was brilliant or . . .”

Absolutely nuts.

Gianna took a deep breath and studied the rest of the room. The small closet door was open and she spotted two suitcases. New. She moved to the open door and reached to push aside some of the clothing.

“Please let me look through things first,” instructed Hawes.

She jerked her hand back. “There’s not much here, but it looks brand-new.” Gianna stepped closer. “Eddie Bauer. All winter clothing. Just like he was wearing . . .”

“Saul said he was living in Palm Desert, so he would have needed new clothes for the cooler weather,” offered Chris. “I suspect your uncle was right when he said your father doesn’t think like most people. Clearly he had the funds to buy clothing and suitcases.” He pointed at the sleeping bags. “Those are expensive bags. I think he purposefully chose to live here. I think he simply needed four walls and a roof and didn’t see the point in paying a lot for it.”

Gianna nodded. She couldn’t look away from the mess on the floor. It wasn’t garbage; it was his work. Did he feel the need for a desk or computer? Or did he simply sit on the mattress and write? She could recall a computer in his home office. It’d been a rarity back then, and she hadn’t been allowed to touch it. “No laptop?” she asked.

“Maybe he took it with him,” Hawes suggested. “But I don’t see anything computer-related here.” She pushed aside a journal on the floor with her toe. “Your uncle called him a ‘freaking genius who no could longer remember to check his bank account balance before he spent money.’” She bent over and flipped open a notebook with a pen from her pocket.

The pages were packed with her father’s writing. Gianna knelt beside the detective and tried to read the cramped handwriting. The date at the top of the page was from three months ago. Her father had listed what he’d eaten that day, that he’d gone to the drugstore, and an account of everything he’d seen. Physical descriptions of people, clothing, cars, weather. The page blurred and Gianna wiped her eyes. Farther down the page he’d made a to-do list that included getting a haircut and researching the benefits of eating kale.

Looking closer, she realized there were stacks of notebooks mixed in with the newspapers and magazines. “Did he write in all of those?”

“Yep,” said Becker. “I looked. They’re like diaries. I noticed one is about four years old. I wonder if he has older ones stored somewhere.”

“So he’s probably written a description or names of who he thinks was following him. It looks like he wrote down everything,” said Gianna.

“That’s what Becker and I were thinking,” admitted Hawes.

“Then what are you waiting for? Someone should be going through these!” Gianna grabbed the closest notebook. Fuck fingerprints. She opened it to the first page and squinted. Computer stuff. A technical language that made no sense to her and made her eyes hurt. She tried to scan a few pages, searching for something—anything—that seemed related to her father’s fears for his safety. She couldn’t do it. The cramped and messy handwriting had to be read word by word. “This will take forever.”