My neighbor treated every trash bag as if it held something fragile, even though she left them at the curb to be taken away. The morning I finally looked inside, I found something that made me regret every conclusion I had already reached.
The street outside my kitchen window was always quiet at dawn.
Sprinklers clicked across trimmed lawns.
Somewhere down the block, a garage door would rise, a dog would bark once, and the neighborhood would slowly remember it was supposed to be awake.
Then I started spending it watching Barbara.
Her house stood directly across from ours, perfect in the way homes in real estate listings usually are.
Her hedges were trimmed into clean lines.
Her flower beds bloomed without weeds.
A silver SUV sat in the driveway, polished even in winter.
