Nanty Glo is a sleepy little town about half the size of Painters Mill. From the looks of things, the bad economy has hit this town particularly hard. A smattering of vacant storefronts peppers the downtown area. Large homes that had once been grand look tired and downtrodden. The town almost has a postapocalyptic feel. Within minutes, I’ve passed through downtown and I’m in a rural area that’s hilly and thick with trees. I’m looking for a gas station to ask for directions to the trailer park when I spot the sign for Blacklick Creek Road. Braking hard, I make the turn.

A quarter mile down, I see the sign for the Glad Acres mobile home park. I turn in and I’m met with a gravel lane that’s blocked with a chain and a sign that probably once warned off interlopers with NO TRESPASSING, but the letters have long since faded. I stop the Explorer and get out. I barely notice the lightly falling rain or the cackle of a rookery in the treetops, and I approach the chain. I can tell by the slope of the land that there’s a creek at the base of the hill.

There are some places that, due to time or circumstance, have earned their state of deterioration. Glad Acres has no such claim. It had never been pretty. The park comprises a single street with four ancient mobile homes lined up like crushed railroad cars in pastel colors streaked with rust. Several have broken windows; at least one is missing a door. At first I think the entire park has been abandoned. Then I notice the bumper of a car parked on the far side of the last trailer.

Stepping over the chain, I start toward the trailer. It’s not yet 6 P.M., but the overcast sky and fog make it seem like dusk. Light glows at the window. As I pass by the vacant trailers, I see fingers of fog rising from the ground, and I sense I’m being watched. I reach the last trailer and take the wooden steps to the door and knock.

The door opens almost immediately. I find myself looking at an older woman in a housedress and camo jacket. “That ‘No Trespassing’ sign is there for a reason,” she says in a cigarette-rough voice.

For an instant, I’m tempted to point out that the sign is illegible, but I don’t think that will help my cause, so I smile and show her my badge. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’m the police chief in Painters Mill, Ohio. I’m looking for someone. Would you mind answering a few quick questions for me?”

“Since you’re a cop, I reckon I don’t have a choice.”

“How long have you lived here?”