The neighborhood had a pretentious name, The Parkside, but Wyse hadn’t seen a park within miles. Just a maze of cutesy, vomit-inducing street names, like Hawthorn Hedge Lane, and an SUV or Ford-150 in four out of five driveways. Aw, there it was! A one-story house, what some people at one time called a rambler. He drove around the block. If you could call it a block. Fucking street wound around like a cobra. But he eventually found his way back to the right street and parked three lots down from the Young’s. He picked his cell off the passenger seat, thumbed in the number scrawled on the Jack in the Box bag, and waited for someone to answer. “Hello, Mr. Young?” “Yes?” “Dr. Bertram Wyse calling. Remember me? I took care of Nora while she was at Lakeview?” He believed turning a statement into a question made it sound benign, establishing an innocent tone that would grease the skids for gathering information. “Yes, I remember.” Young’s voice carried a hint of suspicion, making Wyse uneasy.
