Gordon Hale's grandmother's house sat three blocks off Depot Street in a condition of cheerful structural compromise — the porch steps had been threatening to give since 1979, the gutters held small ecosystems of moss and leaf debris, and the paint on the south-facing wall had gone the color of old teeth. But the garden was immaculate. Iris Hale was seventy-one years old and had strong opinions about marigolds, and the path to the front door was lined with them in aggressive orange rows, as if the flowers had been stationed there to compensate for every other decrepitude.
Mara noticed that the upstairs window, Gordon's window, had its shade up.
The map was visible from the street.
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