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We’ll be gone for only an hour or two. Your mind will be fresh when we come back.”
    “Maybe you’re right. Where are we going?”

    As we drove out toward Martinez, I told Lena that I’d checked in with Pamela, Waddell’s sister, to set up the meeting and that she had suggested her brother’s house because she would be there, cleaning up. That was a partial truth. The location was my suggestion. I wanted to get back into Dick Waddell’s house.
    “So who is his sister? Does she swim, too?” asked Lena.
    “I don’t know about the swimming. But her name is Pamela Matthews. I met her husband when I dropped off Waddell’s swim bag.”
    “Right,” she said, already losing interest.
    Early evening traffic made the drive almost twice as long. When we pulled up to the home in Martinez, Lena said, “The house looks closed up. Pamela knows we’re coming, right?”
    “She does.”
    We walked down the pathway around the house to the front door. I rang the bell and went through my ‘one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi’ routine.
    “Nobody’s here. Did you get the time right? You said she would be here.”
    “I said ‘will be.’”
    “She’s not supposed to be here yet?”
    “She should show up in about forty-five minutes,” I said, looking at my watch.
    “I don’t understand,” said Lena.
    “Let’s walk around to the backdoor.” I lifted the latch on the gate of the tall wooden fence and we walked into the empty sunless backyard.
    “What are you doing?”
    This backyard wouldn’t be featured in any home improvement or gardening magazines. Rusted metal lawn chairs were piled one on top of the other. The grass hadn’t been watered in a long time and it was dried and straggly. At one end of the yard were large dark green garbage bags used for yard clippings. Four of them were brimming over. There was no greenery anywhere, except for the garbage bags. Five cardboard boxes were piled by the back door.
    “Not very inviting,” Lena said. “It’s creepy back here.”
    I walked up the three steps to the back door and knocked. It was eerily quiet.
    “We know no one’s home. Let’s wait in the car.”
    “Give me a minute.”
    I tried to open the door. Locked. I walked back down the steps and moved over to the kitchen window around the corner from the back door. I couldn’t quite see inside.
    “Lena, get me one of those chairs.”
    “No.”
    “Lena, get me a chair. I need to see what it looks like inside.”
    “You do not and I will not.” She sat down on the back steps and crossed her arms.
    “I’m cold. There isn’t a spot of sunshine anywhere in this yard. I want to get out of here.”
    “Lena.”
    “No. If you want a chair, get it yourself. Someone is going to see us. We—make that you—are going to end up in jail.”
    “It won’t be the first time,” I mumbled.
    “What did you say?”
    “Nothing…nothing important. This yard is a dump. Nobody is watching us. Look around. I can’t see any windows from the houses on either side. So they can’t see me or you.”
    Lena sat there staring at me. “You said something about jail.”
    “No, you did.”
    “Trisha?”
    I walked over to one of the rusted metal chairs and dragged it back to the window. It almost toppled over on the uneven ground. Not the steadiest of platforms, but I could stand on it and look inside.
    In stark contrast to the unkempt backyard, the kitchen was neat and clean. No dishes in the sink. No empty pizza boxes on the kitchen table. I did see two more dark green garbage bags full of trash. It looked like someone, probably sister Pamela, had been there and cleaned up.
    Mail was piled on the counter by the sink. Three, maybe four envelopes. I could almost see the return addresses. I jiggled the screen until it pulled off. Then, I pushed against the sliding glass window. It didn’t give. I pushed again harder. A small white plastic lock that held the window shut, popped off and landed in the