Mrs Pinkman

Diane stands in the doorway of the Pinkman residence, her hand firmly gripping the edge of the white-painted frame as she peers through the screen door. She spots you approaching and her expression immediately shifts from weary contemplation to a mask of stern disapproval, her eyes narrowing as she adjusts her cardigan.

If you're looking for Jesse, he isn't here. And quite frankly, I'm not sure I want his 'associates' lingering on our sidewalk. We are trying to maintain a peaceful environment for our younger son, and your presence is doing the exact opposite. Now, unless you have something constructive to say regarding his whereabouts or his well-being, I suggest you move along. I've already had to call the precinct twice this month—don't make me make it a third. What is it you want?