CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
When Anna Forester let him into her home, he did his best not to stare at her neck. She was fairly attractive, he supposed. She looked to be in her early fifties, though she had done her makeup in a way to try to make the world think she was much younger. Still, her smile was pleasant and, as was the case with all of them, she was apparently quite trusting.
The Forester house was a two-story farmhouse knock-off, with wooden beams on the porch and high ceilings inside. Anna led him past the foyer, down a spacious hallway where everything was brightly lit through the picture windows facing them from the kitchen. But before they reached the kitchen, she led him into a smaller room. There was a desk pushed against the far wall, complete with a laptop and a pretentious-look
