We sat in the car in front of the large house across the street from the house Yasmine Hollander grew up in and didn’t make a sound. It was a quite beautiful day in an old neighborhood of quiet, beautiful lawns and grand old Tudor- and Victorian-style homes. The sky was cloudless and brilliantly blue. The sun was bright, hot, and threatening to burn everything to a crisp in a matter of days. Someone across the street had their lawn sprinklers swishing back and forth, creating that lazy kind of sound that made you want to climb into a hammock and take a nice long nap.
Yet we sat in the bucket seats of the ‘68 Shelby Mustang and stared at the big house belonging to Paula Andersen and waited. Waited for her to open the front door of her house, like she did the other night, and stand just beh
