She could not say to Michelle that the Vorsack house had more than just a little tinge of “bad”. And Mrs. Michelle and Missy chatted vigorously in the front seat, oblivious to both the world and other cars on the road. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages.
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