“This is it, right here.” They were the only words she’d spoken in more than ten minutes. She pointed to a craftsman style bungalow on the right side of a residential street in an older Zanesville neighborhood.
Two cars filled the tiny driveway that led back to a single car garage set apart from the house. I pulled my SUV into any empty space along the curb in front and parked. Janet didn’t move; she just stared out at the house.
“Do you want me to go inside with you? Would that help?”
“Yes,” came in response and then she opened the door and slid down out of the seat. I turned and did the same. By the time I made it around to the other side of the truck, she was standing upright and fumbling in her coat pocket for something, but she hadn’t moved otherwise.
When she finally pulled out a
