Chapter 23 Unspoken Ghosts

• The widow’s house sat at the end of a sun-bleached cul-de-sac, its garden overgrown with weeds that choked the rosebushes. A child’s tricycle lay overturned near the porch, its wheels rusted into stillness. I knocked twice, the door creaking open before my fist dropped.
• Lila Carter stood in the threshold, her face a hollow mask. She looked older than her thirty years, her blond hair streaked with gray, eyes red-raw. “You’re the reporter.”
• “Emma Evans.” I held up the casserole dish I’d brought—a flimsy excuse, but it worked. “I’m sorry about your husband.”