Hurricane House by Sandy Semerad

if neighbors hadn’t locked their attic doors. The architect and the contractor who created the walkway were called geniuses, but that was when Paradise Isle was considered safe.
    “The tanned, gray-haired guy is Roxanne’s husband,” Paula said, with the binoculars pressed against her eyes. “The tall blond man is Loughton VanSant, Geneva’s hubby. He’s running for the U.S. Senate.”
    The VanSants owned unit nine. I’d never met the husband, but I’d seen his picture in the newspaper and on television. They bought the townhouse a year ago, Geneva said the day she threw the party for Tara.
    I’d been assigned the claim on Geneva and Loughton VanSant’s townhome. Lucky for me, Loughton Vansant walked briskly in my direction, meaning I could inspect his place without delay.
    I walked over and extended my hand as soon as he reached his townhouse. “Hi, I’m Maeva Larson. I’m your beach neighbor, and I’m also the insurance adjuster for your flood and wind claims. We’ve never met, but I know Geneva.”
    VanSant shook my hand. “Loughton VanSant, nice to meet you.” he dug into his pants pocket, withdrawing a ball of keys. “I’m surprised you’re already here. I haven’t even called my insurance company yet.”
    “Someone must have contacted them, or I wouldn’t have your claim.”
    VanSant exhaled through his teeth, making a hissing sound like a quackless duck. “I’m guessing my secretary. She didn’t think this place would be standing.” He cocked his head sideways. “And you say we’re beach neighbors, too?” “Next door neighbors here. My sister and I own five and seven.”
    The corners of his lips turned up showing even, white teeth. “We were fortunate, weren’t we? Not like Roxanne and Mason.” He nodded toward Trawler, who was squatting over his ruins. “I feel terrible for them.” VanSant shot a look at Sean who stood with his muscular arms folded over his chest in a guarded pose. “You’re the author, aren’t you?”
    Sean offered his hand to VanSant.
    “I know your name as well as my own...uh...” VanSant began.
    “Sean Redmond.”
    “My wife read one your books, loved it. Good to see y’all. Wish it could have been under better circumstances.” VanSant stroked the golden hair on his arms and exhaled through his teeth again. “I’m worried sick about Geneva. Haven’t heard from her, not a word since the storm. She hasn’t even called her mother, which is strange.” VanSant raked his hair and nodded toward Trawler, who was burying his head in his arms. “I hope to God Geneva and Roxanne weren’t over there together. Have y’all seen them?”
    “Not today, not even yesterday, I left Paradise Isle early,” Paula said, “I stayed with a friend.”
    I wondered how Paula managed to return to Paradise Isle after she’d evacuated. I started to ask when VanSant pulled out his wallet. He flipped to a photo of Geneva with long black hair. She reminded me of a young Liz Taylor. “Geneva is five-seven, green eyes, beautiful, like this picture.”
    I said, “She’s lovely. Wish I could say something to ease your mind. One of our beach neighbors, Victor Curry, said he saw your wife’s car parked out here yesterday.” “What time was that?”
    “Yesterday morning, but I don’t remember the exact time. Sorry.”
    “Doesn’t make sense. Why didn’t she return my calls? And her mother’s calls? Her mother’s worried sick.”
    I didn’t know what to say. I thought of the car I saw standing straight up in the sand. No reason to mention it unless I knew for sure the car belonged to Geneva.
    VanSant unlocked his front door and released the potty stink cooped up inside. “Jeez, awful.” He motioned for me to walk ahead of him.
    I walked into the foyer and noticed a laptop Dell sitting on a dining table. The heat from the crystal warmed my chest as if giving me a warning about this computer.
    “Check it out,” I thought I heard Adam say.
    Beside the dining table, I