Parking far down the block, I staked out Priscilla Chappell’s last known address again. It was a second-floor walkup in a downtown Zanesville Victorian that needed a fresh coat of paint. All indications were that she still lived there but, as before, she wasn’t there.
Runners are supposed to work all night and sleep all day. Where the hell is she?
I almost missed seeing her swinging down the sidewalk from the opposite direction, a backpack looped over one shoulder. I only realized it was her when she turned onto the sidewalk leading to the stairs. I waited until she was on her landing and opening her door before I even started to get out of my pickup.
I was in street clothes, sunglasses and a ball cap hoping that I looked decently disguised. The last thing I needed or that she needed wa
