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 beneath 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.
I had always thought the gesture looked possessive.
I unfolded the note.
The handwriting was shaky.
If our mom disappears, please give this to the police.
Do not give it to Rick.
Do not tell him we put it here.
My hands went cold.
I looked toward their house.
The curtains were closed.
Rick’s black truck was not in the driveway.
Mia and Ben had already disappeared around the corner with their trash bag.
I carried the plastic bag inside and locked my door.
Then I stood in my kitchen, staring at the flash drive.
Part of me wanted to call the police immediately.
Another part was worried that doing so might put the children in greater danger.
I read the note again.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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