CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
Ironically, Warren Reilly’s house was located less than five miles away from the Weston Hotel. Parrish had been right to call it a rundown place. Most street kids referred to these types of houses as crack houses. It was low-income housing usually offered by defeated real estate agents to recently released convicts or former drug addicts looking to get back o their feet and reclaim their lives.
She found parking easily, as hardly anyone who lived on Florence Street and the surrounding blocks could afford their own transportation. She knocked on the door and waited for a while only to have no one answer. She leaned toward the door, listening for signs of life, but there were none. She knocked again and this time, after no one answered, she tried the knob. It turned fre
