"This is the right address," sighed Phoebe, glancing from a piece of paper to a shabby

gray house. "Great, our daughter was brought up in a shack", murmured Cole as he

followed Phoebe up the steep stairs. She knocked on the door and waited, a few minutes

later the door was opened by an elderly woman in a blue bathrobe. "Um, hello, I'm

Phoebe Halliwell, and this is my husband Cole Turner, um, is Angie Larson home?"

"Angie Larson? Why, she died eight years ago I'm afraid", said the frail old woman.

Phoebe's mouth went dry. "I'm Angie's sister, Agatha, please, come in".

"So we left our daughter here with Angie thirteen years ago, and we have come

back for her," finished Phoebe, tucking a piece of her curly brown hair behind her ear.

"Do you know where she is?" Cole had finally said something. "Hmm, ahha! Yes, I do

, when my sister died, Alyson was turned over to social services, seeing as how she did

not leave a will, she may still be at social services, then again, she may have already been

adopted," Phoebe cringed at the thought of her daughter having another family. "Do you

have the address?" questioned Cole, grasping Phoebe's hand. Agatha scribbled it down

on a piece of paper, Cole and Phoebe glanced at it and he put it into his coat pocket.

"Thank you for your help", said Phoebe gratefully as Agatha led them to the door, "good

luck in finding your daughter," she said with a warm smile, both of them nodded as they

descended down the steps. Once the woman closed the door Cole pulled out the piece of

paper, memorized the address, and held onto Phoebe as he shimmered both of them to the

place.