I grabbed my cell phone off the table by the front door and slid it into my jacket pocket on the way out, didn’t stop to chat with Sarah and Trixie, who were still at the end of the drive, and squealed out.

Once I was down around the corner on Lilac, where I couldn’t be seen, I pulled over and got out the map book. Deer Prance Drive was on the other side of Oakwood. I got across town in about fifteen minutes and found that Stefanie Knight’s house was in a new development that was every bit as architecturally fascinating as our own, except this one was completely finished, no uncovered foundations, no houses waiting for sod.

Deer Prance was off Autumn Leaves Lane (God almighty, where would it end?), and as I turned onto it, I leaned back in the seat enough that I could reach into the front pocket of my jeans and fish out the piece of paper with the street number on it. There was still another hour of sunlight, and the house numbers were easy to read.

Deer Prance was a street of relatively new townhouses, and I found 2223 on the left side, about two-thirds of the way down. The driveway already had an old Ford Escort in it, and there was no room either behind or next to it for my car, so I found a spot at the curb.

As I got out of the car, the drawstring of the bag looped around my hand, I noticed that for a new development, this stretch already had a slightly run-down look. The paint was peeling on some of the garage doors, one car up the street was on blocks, and tucked out of the way between 2223 and 2225 were a rusted-out stove and an abandoned tricycle.

As I mounted the steps, I noticed two cases of empty beer bottles, just outside the door, waiting to be taken back to the store. There was an aluminum screen door between me and the wooden front door, but I didn’t have to pull it open to knock. There was no glass or screen in it, so I rapped directly on the wood.

I could hear some talking inside, and a radio going, but no sound of approaching footsteps. After about ten seconds, I knocked again.

Inside, a woman’s voice: “Jimmy!”

A pause, a young man’s voice, from somewhere deeper in the house, perhaps upstairs: “What?”

“Door!”

“Get it yourself! I still can’t find Quincy!”

“Jesus, why the fuck did you let him out anyway?”

“Get the frickin’ door yourself, your legs broken?”

“You better find him lickety-split!”

I heard some padding toward the door, and then it opened only a crack.

“Yeah?” I saw a sliver of a woman’s face. One eye, a cheek, half a mouth.

“Uh, hi. I was looking for Stefanie?”

“Stef? You’re looking for Stef?”

Stef. Now that rang a bell.