ALASTAIR HONEYBUN LIVED in a really nice neighborhood, with beautiful older homes, mature trees in the yard, and perfectly manicured lawns. His house was small, but very elegant in red brick with white and black accents. His yard was cut short and outlined by perfect flower and shrub beds. This didn’t surprise her at all. The image of a white-haired older gentleman who puttered in his yard as a hobby was reinforced in her mind.
She knocked on his door and thought about the fact that he hadn’t really sounded old on the phone. The cold was probably just throwing her off.
A guy with the name of Alastair Honeybun had to be old.
The sound of shrill barking greeted her insistent knocking long before she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. She suddenly felt as if someone was staring
