Chapter 22
You can’t judge a book by its cover. The proverb came to mind as Paul and I stood on the sidewalk in front of Scott and Georgina’s neat, middle-class home, complete with white picket fence. Paul reached out to open the gate, but I stopped him. “Just a minute.” He seemed puzzled, but waited patiently while I stood in the cold night air admiring my sister’s house. Golden light shone through the lace curtains and cast warm rectangles on the porch. A TV murmured softly somewhere inside; a shadow, probably Julie, darted across the glass like a nymph. It was a Norman Rockwell painting, the epitome of home and family. It was difficult for me to contemplate what really might be going on inside that house. I sighed, and my breath came out in a white cloud.
“Hannah?”
I shivered inside
