CHAPTER TWO
When Joan arrived at Amanda Westmore's house it was nearly dark. A thin grey light hung in the air as she stepped from her Sprite. The car gleamed whitely from a new waxing.
Already bored after only two days of the summer, Joan had spent the early morning hours lavishly grooming her car. A graduation present from her parents for which she vowed to be responsible, her car was her pride and the job Amanda promised meant far more than the older woman knew.
She sounded the door chimes with a press on an ivory button and heard the bells peel throughout the house.
Amanda's house was a flat-roofed, almost winged structure that sat in the gully between two gentle slopes on the edge of a cliff. Poised as if for flight, from a distance it resembled a redwood seagull caught in a gossa
