Holliday shook his head and pointed to a couple of signs lying prostrate on the front yard’s dead lawn, their wooden stakes corroded by the elements. One was a FOR SALE sign; the other warned trespassers the premises were protected by Smith & Wesson. Jessica shuddered. She didn’t know if the gun warning had simply been for show or if Eleanor really had had a weapon in the house. If she had, it hadn’t been enough to save her life.

“No sale,” Holliday said. “But it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. No one wanted to live in a house where a young woman was slaughtered. Even for a reduced price.”

“I’m surprised there weren’t any property developers willing to swoop in and take advantage of the low selling price. Surely they’re hard nosed enough not to give a damn about what happened in the house?”

“You’d be surprised. Folks are superstitious. In any case, no real development potential. Not enough land and too close to other residential properties for any substantial projects.”

“So the place has just been left to rot?” Jessica asked.

“Exactly,” Holliday said. “The owners gave up on a sale a long time ago. Haven’t even carried out showings for years. Not that I ever tried. I’ve never had any desire to look around inside. Still don’t. The thought of it gives me the creeps.”

“I do want to look around. Come on.”

Holliday hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly followed Jessica up the driveway. She tested the ball of her foot on the first step of the porch. It held firm. She walked up the other two steps and tried the door handle. It was locked.

“At least we tried,” Holliday said. “Let’s go.”

“Not so fast.” Jessica produced the picklock kit from her bag and waved it in front of Holliday.

“Oh, jeez,” he said. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Keep watch,” she ordered.

The lock was old and hadn’t been used for a long time, so it took longer than expected to breach with the pick. But her perseverance paid off after thirty seconds when she heard the click. Jessica pushed the door open and grinned triumphantly at Holliday.

“After you,” she said.

Holliday didn’t move.

“What are you so scared of?”

“Right now? You.”

He pushed past her and entered the murder house.

The living room was just off a small entrance vestibule. The big front-facing window was bare, but the wooden slats prevented the morning’s bright sunshine from filling the room. Slim shards leaked through the cracks in the wood and provided some meager light, but the farthest corners of the room remained hidden in shadow. A filthy, stained couch, sagging in the middle, was pushed up against the wall. Next to it was an upturned crate with empty beer bottles and an ashtray spilling cigarette butts and old joints.

“Junkies?” Jessica asked.