Nine o’clock rolled around and I heard the front door open and close—right on time. I lay in my bed, shivering slightly in spite of the fact that I was in my flannel sleepshirt and tucked up tight under the covers. When I heard the sound of Miss Baxter’s high heels clicking on the hardwood of the hall floor, I gave her a few minutes and then screwed up enough courage to slide my legs over the side of my bed.
“Come in, my dear,” I heard as I stood outside her door. It’s spooky how she does that. I thought I had been silent in my approach, and the small crack from the partially open door couldn’t have been enough for her to see around.
I lifted my fingers to the door and pressed tentatively. At least the hinges didn’t squeak. I was so wound up I probably would have gone sprinting back to m
