Mom looked toward me.
“Which leaves me.”
Silence settled over the kitchen.
One woman supposedly dead.
Several others relocated or unreachable.
Mrs. Wilson locked in her basement.
And my mother nearly tricked into opening her door to a stranger.
I looked at the photograph again.
Someone had been moving through the Seven Oaks Circle one woman at a time.
Detective Ortiz closed her notebook.
“I want to locate every surviving member of this group.”
Mom nodded.
Then she looked at me.
“Emma, there's something else.”
“What?”
Her fingers trembled as she lifted the photograph.
“Three weeks ago, I received a letter asking me to authorize changes to the old property restrictions.”
“From whom?”
“A charitable organization that claimed it was helping seniors relocate.”
The detective leaned forward.
“What organization?”
Mom's voice shook.
“Silver Hearth Home Support.”
The same organization whose business card had been left outside her door.
The same organization whose representative claimed I'd arranged her home inspection.
