CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Yeah—that one!” Ilse was saying, frowning from the paper note in her hand to the address on the side of the house. “No—no that one! Tom!”
Sawyer growled, “I see the Prius, doc. We're good!” He jerked the steering wheel along the side of the road of a neat, newly painted suburban house with no driveway. A water feature tastefully meandered through the neat grass garden. The home had no porch or patio but did boast an impressive oak door with a golden knocker shaped like a lion's head.
Ilse and Sawyer hastened to the front door, took a step onto the slab concrete platform, and both of them knocked simultaneously. And waited.
Ilse breathed heavily, brushing nervously at the hair over her maimed ear, staring at the sealed door. She glanced towards the Prius in the drive and
