We had a little girl, Daisy, who was two. We had a comfortable house on a quiet street. And we had the kind of marriage where I honestly believed we told each other everything. That last part mattered more to me than anything else, and I’ll explain why in a minute.The only person on our street who ever made me uneasy lived in the building right across from ours.
Charlotte was twenty-nine. She wore black, always, head to toe. Heavy eyeliner, silver rings through her eyebrow and her lip, tattoos crawling all the way down both arms. She barely spoke to anyone. She’d come and go at odd hours, and she’d nod if you caught her eye, but that was about it.
I’ll be honest. She scared me a little.
Oliver disliked her even more than I did.
“She gives me the creeps,” he said once, watching her cross the street from our front window.
“Have you ever actually talked to her?”
“No. That’s the point. Normal people say hello. She just stares.”
“That’s a pretty strange standard for a person, Oliver.”
