A few days later, a week before Christmas, my phone rang.
“Carter,” came the voice. “It’s me.
We need your help.”
“Mrs. Shaws?” I sat up straight. “Is everything okay?”
“I can’t explain on the phone, son,” she said.
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“Please come. Just trust me. I’ll send the address.”
She texted me an address to a run-down house at the edge of town.
Despite seeing the Shaws so often, this was the first time I was actually going to their home.
When I arrived, only one light was on — in the attic.
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