It was a small house, more like a cottage of possibly a thousand square feet. It was painted white and looked like it was in good repair. Their were four rocking chairs and pots of colorful flowers arranged neatly on the old-fashioned front porch. Two lush, green ferns hung from the rafters. A coiled hose was nestled in a rack of sorts behind one of the rockers. Something that looked suspiciously like a keg was sitting next to a huge clay pot of bright red geraniums. Jack led the way to the front door, which was painted a dark hunter green. The main door was open behind the screen door, which didn’t have even one hole in it. The screen was stretched taut and looked new. Jack pressed the doorbell. It rang, one loud bong that didn’t interfere with the sounds coming from the back end of the house, probably a television. “Come in, come in!” “Small-town people are hospitable,” Espinosa said. They heard the sound before Emma Doty appeared around a corner in a motorized wheelchair.
