9
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I ring the bell again, checking the address from Ernesto’s note a third time. Still no answer. I glance at Tad, who looks as disappointed as I feel.
We’re about to leave when the door opens. The man who greets us is maybe Detective Langley’s age. He looks harassed and edgy. My spine prickles. I can’t tell if I’m sensing something other-dimensional or if this guy gives me the creeps. Both maybe.
“You selling your white Jesus, you can get the f**k off my lawn.”
“We’re not selling anything,” I say. “And for the record, Jesus was brown.”
“Sir,” begins Tad in a very Southern drawl that makes me shoot him a look, “did you know our grandpa? He died”—his voice breaks—“this week of a heart attack.”
The man stares.
“Ernesto Hidalgo,” continues Tad. “We saw him every Christ
