Kelsey looked up. It was the right address. The house looked so run-down, the only hint of life was a beat-up Ford '67 and a flickering light in one of the sooty windows. She knocked on the door, from each pound dust lifted, making her cough. Heavy footsteps sounded from the inside. A woman answered the door. "Are you Kelsey?" she asked, with a hint of wisdom and a lot of tiredness. "Yes, ma'am. I'm here to baby-sit Hunter." She smiled, though it was faint and almost pencil-drawn on her worn-out, weathered, sagging face. Her jet-balck hair swung a little bit in the breeze, her piercing green eyes glowing. Kelsey thought this was delight. And maybe it was. Delight that a murder was about to be commited.
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