Chapter 7It was a short drive from Hannah Street to Clara Street. We passed through a quaint neighborhood filled with two-story homes; their open porches looked inviting, even though the weather was inclement. The oaks and maples were just beginning to get their spring foliage, and the buds sparkled like bright green gems on the barren branches. Most of the large, well-kept front lawns were beginning to turn green again, and crocuses and forsythias were poking their sweet little heads up from the flower beds that adorned just about every front yard.
Angie Sinclair's house was a modest two-story bungalow, painted a pale yellow, with a wide front porch. The large front windows were shrouded with heavy curtains, and you could almost feel the sadness of its remaining resident as you walked up
