Carol Marsh's house was a single-story timber frame set back from a dirt road with no neighbors visible in either direction. Lights on inside. Smoke from the chimney. A truck in the driveway with studded snow tires.
She opened the door before they reached the porch steps.
Late sixties. Short white hair. Reading glasses pushed up on her forehead. She looked at the group of them without surprise or alarm, taking count quietly, then her eyes landed on Emma and stayed there.
"Come inside," she said. "All of you."
The house was warm. Woodstove in the corner of the main room burning hard. Mismatched furniture that looked lived in rather than decorated. Bookshelves covering two full walls. A large kitchen visible through an open doorway with something on the stove that smelled like soup.
Car
