Her Dirty Little Games
Maybe one of the neighbors knew someone who could help.
I slipped back inside, grabbed my phone and a light cardigan, then stepped out through the front gate. The street was quiet as usual, lined with neat houses and trimmed hedges that made mine look even worse.
Mrs. Henderson, my next-door neighbor, was outside watering her flowers. She was in her late fifties, always cheerful, always curious… maybe a little too curious sometimes.
“Good morning!” I called, walking over with a small smile.
She looked up, smiling back. “Well, hello there, dear! I was wondering when I’d see you again. How are you holding up?”