And despite the warm weather, she often wore scarves around her neck.
Still, I told myself there was nothing unusual about someone cleaning out a house.
Until one morning, curiosity got the better of me.
Barbara had left a large bag near the curb. I knew I had no right to touch it.
I opened it anyway.
Inside were children’s clothes.
A pink cardigan.
A denim jacket.
School folders.
Books.
A stuffed rabbit missing one ear.
Then I found three photographs.
The same teenage girl appeared in each one.
On the back of one photograph was a name:
Emily.
I immediately felt uneasy.
Barbara didn’t have a teenage daughter living with her.
I retied the bag and went home.
Anna was furious when I admitted what I’d done.
“You had no right.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t turn what you saw into a story you haven’t heard.”
She was right.
Unfortunately, I had already started making assumptions.
That afternoon, we spoke with an elderly neighbor named Patterson, who had lived on the street for decades.
When we mentioned Emily, her expression changed.
