The picture of Yvette was a different size than the rest, a little shorter and not quite as wide, as if it had been taken by a different camera. She was in front of a fireplace. It definitely was not Roger Jackson’s house in the photo. From what I could remember of her face, the photo didn’t look like it had been taken that long ago.Then I heard the sound of a car come to a stop and idle in front of the Jackson house. I moved to the window, but it was blacked out. I shoved the picture of Yvette and the three shots of Kris into my windbreaker pocket and hustled out of the room, through Jackson’s laundry room and up the stairs as quietly as I could go. As I reached the top of the stairs, I heard a car door slam. The car engine accelerated and began to diminish.The clock in the living room read a quarter to two. I hid around the corner from the front door, drawing my .45 and listening. I could hear the sound of footsteps on the walk, then the porch. The metallic creak of the screen door opening came next.
