Chapter Eleven
Empty memories.
Elizabeth Ellington’s house appeared more welcoming in the daylight, but not by much. When I had passed by during the night, I had missed its family design. The neighborhood she lived in was not nearly as upscale as the one Henry Atkinson called home, but it was respectable. The houses were nice, but the lawns didn’t look like something out of a magazine. Toys were scattered here and there, where careless children had forgotten to pick up after themselves.
I drove up to the curb alongside Elizabeth’s large front yard, throwing my car into park. It was impossible to be sure if she was in, instead, I hoped that Amir’s description was accurate. If this woman only went out at night, surely, she must be home.
I dashed through the drizzle up to the entrance. Th
