20
On the winding, seven-mile drive to the home where Ophelia lived with her father and stepmother, Marla gave me the background on the house, which I had visited only once, to see how we would set things up. The Unger place had been built fifteen years before. Craning her neck as we began our climb, she said the expansive stucco manse, from the Taco Bell School of Architecture, was only occasionally visible from the road. But it wasn’t long before I could afford no glimpses upward; I was just trying to manage the dirt road.
“So,” Marla said, “you’ve seen the place already?”
“Just briefly, because Ophelia was due home from one of her clothes-shopping expeditions. We signed the contract. Neil gave me a check and ushered me out. Remember, this is, or was, supposed to be a surprise, so he
