Chapter Eighteen
The day was as sour as his mood: it was pouring drops of icicles. Callan huddled into his jacket, unable to prevent the rivulets trickling down his face and knocking a shiver through him.
It was 7 a.m., and too early for Callan after a night of tossing and turning. He’d parked his car down the road thinking he’d walk up the driveway and surprise the councillor. And then the rain had picked up. Fickle summer.
Callan stepped under the porch and shook himself like a dog, uncaring if he looked silly. His finger pressed down on the doorbell with more punch than necessary. And no one answered.
He tried again, waited.
He was about to try for a third time when the door swung open to reveal a heaving Mrs Eloise Wagner.
‘Detective!’ She adjusted her dressing gown. ‘What brings
