She requested the release of Bobbie Bray’s remains to herself - if they weren’t claimed by next of kin
- so that she could arrange for their burial. Quietly.
Somebody should do it," she stated aloud.
She got her coffee, rolled her aching shoulders. Then headed back to work.
* * *
In Number Twelve, there was silence in the dark. No one sang, or wept or laughed. No one walked there.
For the first time in eighty-five years, Number Twelve sat empty.