CHAPTER TENDanni Beranski lived in an old Victorian in Berlin (pronounced BER-lin, emphasis on the first syllable, unlike the German namesake), a small town only a few minutes drive from Ocean City. Its gingerbread brown with yellow trim had faded a bit with time and weather, but a realtor could still call it “quaint,” as opposed to a “fabulous fixer-upper.”
Climbing the creaky porch steps, I rang the doorbell and practiced smiling.
Eventually, a blonde woman in jeans and an oversized T-shirt opened up. She could have been Danni’s mother, although she looked young for that.
“Hi. Is Danni here?”
She looked puzzled for a moment, then said, “And who are you?”
“I … met Danni recently. There was something we discussed and I was hoping to continue that discussion.”
Still looking uncertain,
