17
They were slowing down in front of the big old mansions on Church Street. A couple of the Victorian-style street lamps were flickering, in need of repair, but the one in front of the Burnham manse was bright, casting a circle of light onto the wet snow surrounding it.
“Hey, does Beth have a motorcycle?” Christine craned her neck, peering around Shawn as she spoke. “There’s a motorcycle—right there in front. There’s almost no snow on it. Someone’s just parked it there, within the past hour.”
“Beth? On a motorcycle? Are you kidding?” Shawn started to say, but his voice faded as he looked up at the windows of Beth’s front room. The curtains were only partly drawn, and he could see shadowy shapes coming together, separating, and coming together again.
Who was that? And what the hell wer
