Each time, she wore something a little tighter. A little lower. A little shorter.
Each time, Irvin came home and told me about it. Every single time. He’d say, “Vanessa needed help with her garbage disposal,” or “Vanessa’s car battery died.”
He didn’t hide it. I want to be clear about that. He always told me.
But I could see the way she looked at him over the fence when he was mowing the lawn. I could see the way she came out onto her porch whenever he came home from work, like she’d been waiting for the sound of his car.
And I could feel something cold starting to grow in my stomach. Something I hadn’t felt since I was a teenager.
Fear.
It happened on a Wednesday afternoon in July.
I’d taken the day off work. A dentist appointment of my own, which is ironic. I was home by two. Irvin was teaching summer school. Maddie was at her job at the ice cream shop.
