Every Sunday, the two children next door walked along our street carrying one black trash bag.
ChildCare
Everyone thought they were picking up litter.
Then one afternoon, I saw nine-year-old Ben crouch beneath the bushes outside my window and hide something in the dirt.
After he left, I went outside.
Under the leaves was a plastic bag containing a silver flash drive and a folded note.
My name was written on the front.
MRS. CARTER.
I opened it.
If our mom disappears, give this to the police.
Pregnancy& Maternity
Do not give it to Rick.
Do not tell him we left it here.
That was the moment I realized those children had never been cleaning our street.
They had been leaving evidence.
PART 1 — The Flash Drive
The children were Mia, twelve, and Ben, nine.
Their mother, Laura, had moved next door two years earlier with her husband, Rick.
Rick wasn’t their biological father, but everyone in the neighborhood saw him as a friendly, successful family man.
He installed home-security systems.
Cameras.
Alarms.
Smart locks.
He knew police officers and business owners all over the county.
He smiled at block parties.
Helped at school fundraisers.
Whenever Laura spoke, he often placed a hand against the back of her neck.
I used to think it looked strangely possessive.
I never imagined how right that instinct was.
After finding the note, I carried the flash drive inside and plugged it into an old laptop.
Seven folders appeared.
PHOTOS.
RECORDINGS.
MONEY.
RICK’S TRUCK.
