The place fairly echoed with emptiness. The sparse furniture, bare wooden floors, and religious pictures made him think this was what a convent would look like. He doubted Mrs. Wells would appreciate the comparison.

He could hear the sounds of activity from upstairs, and after a few more minutes, a woman he recognized as Mrs. Wells came down the staircase. She moved slowly, her hand resting gently on the rail, her back rigidly straight, her face calmly expressionless. She was in no hurry to see him, nor was she reluctant. She had nothing to fear from the police.

“Mrs. Wells,” he said, removing his bowler hat as she reached the bottom of the stairs. “I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy. I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

“And what would that be?” she asked, not at all concerned about whatever he might have to say to her.

Frank glanced up the stairs and saw several young faces peering over the railing above, straining to hear what he was saying.

“Is there someplace we can talk privately?”

“I don’t pay protection money to the police,” she warned him. “Our heavenly Father protects us.”

Frank decided to ignore the provocation. “I have some news about one of your…” He gestured helplessly, not certain what to call the girls who lived here.

“Guests?” she supplied.

“Yeah, one of your guests,” he agreed, glancing up the stairs again. More faces were staring down at them now. All sounds of activity upstairs had stopped.

She glanced up, too, and instantly the faces vanished. The sound of scurrying footsteps was followed by the slamming of a door, and all was quiet. She turned back to Frank.

“Very well,” she said. “Please step into the parlor.”

He followed her into a shabbily furnished room. She didn’t bother to close the doors – or maybe she didn’t trust him enough to close the doors. She turned to face him, neither offering him a seat nor taking one herself.