Lost in Italy by Stacey Joy Netzel Page B

video?  What use was she to him?  None of it made sense.
    The canned pasta in her stomach churned, and what was left in her bowl lost its already limited appeal.  She returned to the kitchen, dumped her leftovers in the garbage and deposited her dishes in the sink.  Leaning back against the counter, she gripped the edge so hard numbing tingles shot through her fingers.
    How is he involved in this whole thing?
    Impulse propelled her to the drawer where he’d stashed her purse and camera.  A quick rummage revealed nothing of significance and she slammed it shut before moving on to another one.
    Halli worked her way through the house, not quite knowing what she was looking for, but somehow the systematic progression of her hasty search kept her in a semi-state of calm.  Taking action instead of letting things happen gave her a tiny sense of much-coveted control.
    One of the bedrooms smelled odd.  A combination of fresh paint and the scent of new carpeting mingled in the stale air, suggesting it’d been closed up for awhile.  All the drawers and closets were empty save one.  When she saw men’s clothes along with boxes of cameras and film equipment, something clicked in her mind.  Trent’s brother had been a documentary film maker, just like their father, Greg Tomlin.
    Her gaze scanned the room again, this time comprehending the fresh paint and new carpeting.  Of course.  This must have been where he’d died.  The furnishings looked new.  As if they’d been hastily replaced, instead of someone taking the time to find antique pieces like in the guestroom she’d used earlier.
    The hairs on the back of her neck pricked and a chill raced down her spine.  Backing up, she rushed from the room and slammed the door, unable to stomach the thought of Sean Tomlin’s lifeless body on the bed as the newspapers had reported.
    In the hall, as she leaned against the wall to take a couple of deep breaths, her gaze focused on the door at the end, the room she’d heard Trent in earlier when she’d made her escape.  A likely place to store things he wanted kept private.  Heart still pounding wildly, she hurried across the carpet and twisted the door handle.
    There was no doubt it was Trent’s room.  One hundred percent male was stamped on the heavy, walnut furniture of the four poster king bed, two dressers, a desk and a black leather chair.  On the walls, stark black and white outdoor photos complimented the dark bedding and drapes.  The pictures reminded her of Ansel Adams and she wouldn’t be surprised if they were originals.
    She made it halfway across the room before a part of her balked at violating Trent’s personal privacy.  Then she thought of him ransacking her purse and quickly forgot her hesitation.  She started with his dresser drawers, but the only thing of interest she found there were designer boxer briefs and a box of extra-large condoms.
    Lovely.  Just what she wanted to know.
    Mentally blocking the memory of their earlier kiss and the feel of his hard body, she headed for the desk.  In the third drawer, she hit pay dirt.  Buried on the bottom, a leather bound notebook sat atop a thick stack of newspaper articles.  Articles about Sean Tomlin’s suicide.  Thumbing through them, she saw a couple she’d read back in the States.  She’d been as shocked and saddened as much of the world, especially since it’d never been made public until his death that Trent’s brother had fought a battle with depression most of his adult life.
    Though not as renowned as their legendary father, Sean Tomlin’s last two documentaries had garnered rave reviews from critics and audiences alike.  Through her job in public television, Halli had watched and respected his work even before he grew in popularity.  He’d been a rising star, unafraid to tackle subjects others shied away from.  The world had lost something special when he died.
    She set aside the clippings from the US publications and the local