The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the houses as the pickup wove gently down the residential street. Slowing down to a crawl Rob retrieved the crumpled paper on which he'd scrawled his destination. 23 Hargreave Crescent. Strange name, but it beat the hell out of knock-offs like 'Pine', 'Elm', or 'Fifth'. His eyes darted between the road ahead and the right-hand abodes as he scanned for identifying numbers. 59... 57... Murphy's law, of course he'd picked the wrong end. Eventually he found it: a red-brick raised bungalow with a short driveway and a single garage. He pulled in, jerking the parking brake as the engine shuddered to a halt.
Rob sighed, rubbing his eyes. Endurance road trips really weren't for him; his only stop had been for lunch and despite a fair bit of life left in the day he was already dead-tired. Summoning what strength he had left, he seized the briefcase on the passenger seat and shuffled out of his truck. As he trudged up to the front door he took in the neighborhood: clean, quiet, kids playing further on, songbirds chirping in the blue sky above. It wasn't a modern suburb, there was too much wildness to the flora, too much personality to the houses, not like the regiments of cookie-cutter units that greeted him on the way in, all faux-stone façades, manicured lawns and puny backyards.
He took a moment to straighten out his crumpled dress shirt and center his dusty brown jacket, then rang the doorbell. A minute later he was greeted by a wistful-looking woman with wavy-red hair, a plain pale green shirt and beige skirt. "Justine Parker?" The woman nodded. "Rob Tin, private investigator," he announced with a tired grin, "We spoke on the phone yesterday."
"Yes, come in, come in!" She swung the door open and ushered him inside. He grimaced as he kicked off his shoes, flecks of dried mud showering the immaculate mat in the entryway. "Thanks again for coming," she said, extending her arm, which he shook. She guided him into a modest living room, inviting him to take a seat. He settled on a high-backed armchair in the corner by the front window, setting his briefcase down beside him. "You look exhausted," Justine noted, "Long drive?"
"Yeah," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
"Can I get you anything to drink?"
A large scotch wouldn't go amiss, he thought, but since he was there on business he should exercise at least some self-restraint. "Glass of water's fine." As the woman disappeared through an entryway at the far end, Rob surveyed the room. Middle-class household through and through. Modest flat-screen TV and sound system on the far wall, flanked either side by bookcases with a mix of texts and trinkets. Glass-surface coffee table in the center of the room, what looked like an heirloom chesterfield across from him, a fancy-framed picture hanging above it in what he assumed was a middle 19th Century style. To his left was a low table with several picture frames; he was about to examine them when Justine returned. He rose from his chair, receiving the tall glass with a weary smile, downing half of the icy water immediately. She sat down in the middle of the sofa stock-straight, limbs pressed close together. Though she tried to hide it, whatever she'd called him here for was clearly urgent in her mind.