#fran001

Carrington pulled up to Fran’s home about an hour after sunset, parking his Aston Martin and peering through the windshield at the beautifully restored home. Fran had really outdone herself. The place was resplendent, but not garish. Restored, but with little tells here and there that spoke of it’s true age. Carrington shouldn’t be surprised. The woman he’d come to think of as the little sister he’d never had was Italian to the marrow of her bones. So why shouldn’t her home in White Crest be the same? 

Carrington smiled to himself as he hit the doorbell, waiting patiently to be invited inside.