“I don’t care if you have roots in the business, but I think being a detective is a risk and an unsuitable job for a woman,” said Doyle, as he picked the lock on the door. “Just say the word if you want to stay in the car.”

“I’d say that word is misogyny,” snapped Duncan as they entered the apartment. “My dad knew I had the right stuff — and usually the scruples — to be a P.I.” She glanced around the spotless home. “And I fortified myself this morning with a big bowl of Wheaties, the breakfast of champions.”

“Time and again I’ve seen awful things in these searches,” said Doyle, as he looked around. “But there’s no sign that something happened or evidence someone in the final days before self-harm.”

Duncan checked behind a curtain and saw an imprint on the shag rug where a suitcase had clearly been stored. On the desk sat an open book and a brochure for a Poconos resort. “Song of Solomon 2:16, a verse often used in weddings, is underlined in this Bible,” she announced. “Maybe this is just a love story with a secret elopement.”