Every Sunday, the neighbor’s children cleaned our street with one black trash bag. Then I saw the younger boy hide something under my window.
The object under the bush was a clear plastic bag.
Inside was a small silver flash drive and a folded piece of paper.
My name was written across the front.
MRS. CARTER.
For several seconds, I stayed kneeling in the dirt.
The children next door were named Mia and Ben. Mia was twelve. Ben was nine.
Their mother, Laura, had moved into the house beside mine two years earlier with her husband, Rick.
Rick was not the children’s biological father, but they called him Dad whenever he was nearby.
He worked in home security.
He installed cameras, alarms, and smart locks for people all over the county.
He also smiled constantly.
At block parties.
At school fundraisers.
Whenever Laura spoke, Rick rested a hand on the back of her neck as if he were being affectionate.
