She lived in a pleasant-looking assisted-living facility twenty minutes outside town.
There were flowers in the entrance.
A cheerful receptionist.
Old-fashioned music playing softly in the hallway.
Nothing about the building looked sinister.
But when Helen saw me, she began crying.
“Emma Carter?”
I nodded.
She reached for my hands.
“You look so much like Ruth.”
I smiled gently.
“Mom sends her love.”
Helen was seventy-eight, with silver hair and bright green eyes.
She had known my mother since I was a baby.
I remembered her bringing homemade jam to neighborhood gatherings.
Now she looked exhausted.
“Are you okay here?” I asked.
She glanced toward the door.
“They're kind enough. But I didn't want to move.”
“What happened?”
Helen swallowed.
“A woman from Silver Hearth told me my house needed urgent electrical repairs. She said it wasn't safe for me to remain there.”
I frowned.
“Was that true?”
“I don't know. She showed me a report.”
