“West’s road?” I point to a street sign off to our right. What if it’s not the same Roselyn who brought in Gingerbread? If it is, will she be angry we tracked her down? My heart skips a beat as Gran turns onto the hilly road. “Maggie, remember, there are always two sides to a story.” Gran looks over her glasses at me. “Of course, Gran.” I nod. Gran parks in front of number 23, a smaller house than the rest, with an overgrown lawn and scrubby pines lining the porch. A whirligig twirls in the wind... by the walkway. Looking closer, I see it’s a wooden dog with spinning legs. We walk up to the porch. I gather my nerve and press the bell. Dogs bark from behind the house—two or three distinct yaps. The curtain slides back an inch, a lock clicks, and the door opens. Sure enough, it is the same Roselyn—same short hair and big green eyes in a nervous face. “Hello, Roselyn,” Gran says. Roselyn looks from Gran to me. Finally she asks, “Is Gingerbread all right, Dr. MacKenzie?”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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