At the stroke of midnight, I sat with my nose pressed against the window of Gran’s bedroom, watching Elvira glide out of our house and into the snow-draped beauty of Buffalo’s Delaware Park.
Gran saw her, too, and shouted, “No, sweetie, come back!
The peeling front door gaped like a yawning mouth. The large windows stared like hollow eyes.
Lyle’s lungs heaved from running, his bare feet creaking on the front porch of 13 Onyx Lane. Weeds growing through the slats brushed against his ankles.
Robbing Karl Schmidt should have been easy. He was staggering drunkenly as I stalked him through the moonlit streets. Instead, he snorted when I demanded his money, pulling out two empty pockets. “Somebody beat you to it, you rogue.” He squinted his blue eyes.
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