CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
At first the lights would not switch on, and the interior of the hovel was left in a darkness barely lit by the glistening light of the kerosene lantern out on the deck. Rachel flicked the toggle up and down until the kitchen lights buzzed and flashed on. One of them blew with a loud pop. She looked around, her eyes wide, her face slackening in shame.
The shelves that ran the entire length of the studio had been ripped from the wall and now lay in pieces. One shelf had been smashed against the fireplace, shards of botticino marble broken from the mantle and scattered across the floor. Another had been splintered over his enormous bed, which itself had been upturned, the sheets pulled from it, the mattress cut open as if with a knife. The hundreds of books from the shelv
