Fifteen minutes later I swing the truck into the gravel driveway of a mid-century bungalow. The dumpster in the yard and the bobcat in the driveway suggest the old house is about to become another one of Pointe Hill’s casualties. But there are no workers around, and the only car in the driveway is a luxury sedan that looks out of place on a block lined with cars as old as my parents’ truck.
I peep up at the house through the windshield, annoyed Christopher isn’t outside waiting for me, then jump out and head up the front steps onto the porch. The wood on the wraparound porch is worn; the once burgundy paint, a dusty, faded brown. An old, rusty swing hangs from the porch’s rafters, and it squeaks as it sways in the breeze. I bang my fist on the screen door and look inside.
“Hello?” Nothin
