I softly clicked the car door shut and headed down the brick road that led into the heart of Wilkinsburg, each red block a reminder of the hands worn raw a hundred years ago. Massive Victorian homes that once upon a time belonged to elite families had been transformed into triplex apartments where kids crowded the postage-stamp yards. I walked until I reached the newly constructed Abraham Lincoln statue, a dedicated effort by a passionate local historian to commemorate the Lincoln Highway that brought life to this small community a century ago. With over 3,000 miles of transcontinental road, one could potentially drive from New York City all the way to San Francisco. Realizing I had been walking for over an hour, I turned back home, hopping over jagged cracks where maple tree roots had effortlessly lifted the sidewalk.

Three houses down from my own I pulled out my cell phone from my back pocket. Two houses away I dialed and hoped—despite knowing that hope only led to disappointment—that someone would pick up. By the time I reached my next-door neighbor I got dropped into voicemail. Not a personalized voicemail, but the generic default one:

“The person you have called is not available right now. Please leave a message at the tone.”

I hesitated before speaking. “Please call me back. I need to know if Vera is with you, if she’s okay. Her family is in a panic looking for her, and the cops are involved.” Talking while walking, I lowered my voice while I ambled up the driveway. The windows were two bright eyes against the inky abyss of night. “Please, I need to speak with you. Before it’s too late.”

I inhaled, uncertain what else to say, then whispered, “If you care at all what happens to you—to us—call me back.” Then I hung up.

Upon passing my car, I realized I had left my purse on the passenger seat. I grabbed it and swung it over my shoulder, heading toward the walkway that passed under a bare crab apple tree limb. I’d need to prune it soon.

My cell phone rang as I was just about to step up onto my front stoop. It was Karen Delacroix, Mortimer’s legal secretary. I had no idea why she’d be calling at this time of night, but I answered immediately.

“Hey, Karen. What’s up?”

“Are you sitting down?”

“Huh? No, why?”

“Good, then you’re in the perfect position to jump for joy. Get this, sister: Maleficent Morty’s dead.”

I wasn’t sure if I’d heard her right. “Did you say…dead?”

“As the proverbial doornail. I’m at the mansion. Morty and I had a row over the phone. What else is new, right? So I came over to try to patch things up. When I got here the paramedics were getting ready to haul him away. Apparently the old bastard had a heart attack.”