We went to see Patterson that afternoon.
She had lived on the street for 30 years and seemed to know the history of every person.
When we mentioned Emily’s name, her face changed.
“She was Barbara’s daughter,” she said. “She died 11 years ago. She was 16.”
Anna reached for my hand.
“My goodness, we thought she was keeping a girl hostage or something.”
“You two are overthinking,” Patterson said, “but it’s understandable since you moved in a few years after Emily died.”
“So Barbara has always lived in that house?” I asked.
“Yes. Emily grew up there. Her room is upstairs at the front.”
Patterson pointed across the street toward a window with pale curtains.
“I heard that Barbara locked the door after the funeral.”
