That is, until I investigated Iovelli-Alberti in the Fourteenth Century!” They reached a part of the subdivision dubbed “The Treehouse”, a popular hangout for edgy teens who smoked joints in its foundation pits. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. “Well, because I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion. ‘To find what?’ demanded Gerald. He was conscious of a quickening of his heartbeat and the familiar rise of adrenalin that sent his senses soaring in anticipation.
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