Of course. Marlene.
Her mailbox says “MARLENE” in old metal letters that look like they’ve been there since the ’70s. The day we moved in, she watched the truck from her porch like a security guard.
“Hope you’re not planning on being loud,” she said.
No ‘hello’. No smile.
The second time, Ella was outside drawing chalk stars. Marlene came over, frowned, and said, “Some people like their curb uncluttered.” I laughed, because what else do you even do with that?
Then I put up Christmas lights.
She commented from her porch almost every night:
“You know people sleep on this street, right?”
“You know people sleep on this street, right?”
“Those flashing ones look cheap. That’s all I’m saying.”
I figured she was just the neighborhood Grinch.
Apparently, she’d decided to level up.
Anger finally caught up with shock. I marched across the lawn, my hands shaking.
Thank God, Ella was still at aftercare.
I did not want her to see any of that.
On Marlene’s porch, I didn’t bother with a polite tap.
I pounded.
Three hard knocks that made the door rattle.
Nothing.
I hit it again.
The lock clicked. The door opened a crack.
Marlene peered out.
And the speech I’d rehearsed in my head just died.
She’d been crying. Her eyes were red and swollen. Her cheeks blotchy. Her gray hair shoved into a messy bun like she’d given up on it.
“You’re here,” she croaked. “Of course you are.”
“What did you do to my house?” I asked. My voice cracked on “house.”
She flinched like I slapped her.
“You couldn’t what? You cut my cord. You ripped down my lights. You broke my daughter’s ornament. Do you understand—”
“I know what I did,” she blurted, voice breaking.
She opened the door wider. That’s when I saw her hands. Scraped knuckles. A thin line of dried blood along one finger. Like she’d been fighting with hooks and wire.
“Come in,” she said suddenly. “You should see it. Maybe then you’ll understand why I did the worst thing.”
Every true crime podcast I’ve ever listened to yelled in my head.
But her face wasn’t smug. It was wrecked.
I stepped inside. Her house smelled like dust and old perfume. The curtains were closed. Lamps were on, but the light still felt dim. Everything was neat but frozen, like nobody had moved a picture frame in years.
Then I saw the wall. Dozens of framed photos.
A boy in a Santa hat, grinning.
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
