CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
At seven-thirty the next morning, Avery sat in her car a half block down from the home of Constance and Donald Prince.
They lived in Somerville, just northeast of Cambridge, in a small yellow house with white trim on a quiet suburban street. A white picket fence surrounded the property. There were two porches: one on the first floor up, and another on the second level, where chairs and a table had been set for sunlit morning breakfasts.
The scene appeared to be the perfect setting: trees lined the sidewalks, the sun was coming up, and birds chirped in the sky.
Screams were all Avery could remember, the endless screams from the one and only time she had visited the Princes, and tears and plates being thrown against the wall as both of them had desperately tried to driv
