19
“Eugenie’s house is somewhere up ahead. If we come out on the next road, we’ve gone too far,” Ralph said.
“What’s it look like?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there,” he snapped. “Eighteen-four-twenty-three. There it is—the green mailbox.”
A short, dirt driveway led to a simple, A-frame, wooden house. White with black trim and shutters, the house looked well maintained and the yard was tidy, but an old shed in the back had a suspicious lean, as if it were trying to see past the house at the rest of the big, wide world. Two cars were parked side-by-side in a bare patch in front of the house. One belonged to Cordelia Jennings. I pulled forward until my bumper was just a few feet from both cars, blocking them in.
“Don’t want to mess up the grass,” I said, parking the car and
