110 - Fred

Becca's father lived in a falling apart house, whose street housed few neighbors and several thin and angry dogs. The house was made of aged wood, with a window facing the street and the glass broken, just like a wooden door that seemed to have been leaning against to say that the property was not abandoned. There was no garden, not even a grass, as if the soil refused to bloom in that uninhabitable place.

While leaving the car and investigating the neighborhood, I couldn't help but wonder if Becca and her mother didn't go through such homes throughout their lives with that man. It was not difficult to understand that he was sloppy and with a great habit of blaming others for their problems. Not even the mailbox, which was a standard of all the houses around, remained intact and in its usual reddish tone. He shouldn't worry, of course, he didn't receive mail.

"Mr. Hanson" called Sawyer, covering my side with his escort. “Do you prefer me to call the police instead of going in?”

"Are y