Twenty-one eighty-four Elm Street was in darkness except for a light flickering in the bottom window. Juarez parked his Wrangler opposite the yellow bricked and white aluminum side-split home and left his engine running. His instincts told him that something wasn’t right. Eunice’s bike with the red dragon heads spitting fire painted on its sides was not parked in its usual location. Either she had not arrived yet, which was highly unlikely since he was much later than expected, or he had misj...