Amanda needed to think.  She was a writer, and writers are used to solitude.  There had been way too much information thrown at her this morning, and she needed time to process it.  Behind the library she spotted a wooden bridge, and quickly gathered up her notebook and went for a walk.

The quaint little bridge crossed a bubbling, tree-lined creek and opened up into a beautiful little park.  It was green, restful, and empty.  With a sigh she sank down under the shade of a great elm tree and closed her eyes for a few moments.  What a perfect place this was!  The fragrance of the last fall flowers wafted lightly around her.  The sun was warm, but with a crisp edge to the salty air that said winter wasn’t far off.  The noisy little creek soothed her nerves, and birds chirped nearby.  Farther away she could hear passing cars, reminding her that the rest of the world was not far away.  “Oh, Lord, I’m in trouble here,” she whispered aloud.  “Help me get through it.”

Now she felt better.  Opening her notebook, she began to write an outline.  Most of what she knew centered on the paintings.  They showed her a man who was watching her home from deep in the trees, then from the edge of her yard, and then sitting on her pack patio.  What was the next logical extension?  Inside the house, she thought.  Thomas was right, she couldn’t stay there alone.  Next to her outline she wrote, ‘find motel’.  Next, the paintings themselves; they were definitely warnings, but from whom – friend or foe?  Neither made sense.  A friend would talk to her, not take the time to paint pictures.  A foe would just do whatever he wanted to do, unless the object was to terrorize her.  So who did she know that would want that?  She searched her memory but came up empty.

If the problem wasn’t in her memory, then where else might it be?  The house, she thought.  What had she learned today?  The house had seen violence at least twice; years ago a man was killed, and months ago the previous owner went stark raving mad.  On her list she wrote, ‘find previous owners’.  Maybe an answer lay there.  Suddenly a picture popped out of her memory; she and Thomas parking in the driveway of their brand new home, and Moisey raking leaves in the back yard.  Why was Moisey there?  Was he hired to care for the house?  It struck her how well he knew it.  Of course, he had lived next to it his entire life.  That’s who she needed to talk to!  She almost jumped up before remembering that he wouldn’t be able to talk to her.  He couldn’t communicate such information, could he?  Unless he could draw her a picture or something….