From the front, nothing looked wrong.
The sprinklers clicked over the grass. The upstairs curtains were half open. Caleb’s new truck sat in the driveway, shining like a prize he had insisted he deserved after a hard quarter at work. Marissa had argued about the cost, but Caleb had kissed her forehead and told her she worried beautifully.
That was one of his tricks.
He made condescension sound like love.
Ridge Hollow was the kind of neighborhood where people pretended tall fences meant privacy. In truth, everyone noticed everything. They knew who bought a new car, whose dog barked, and who visited whose house too often.
Vanessa from number 218 had been one of those familiar faces.
At first, Marissa had liked her. Vanessa remembered birthdays, brought banana bread when Marissa was sick, watered her basil once, and dropped by with easy smiles and harmless excuses. She borrowed sugar even though she hosted perfect dinner parties. She knew the gate code because Marissa had given it to her herself.
That was the part Marissa would replay later.
