That should have been enough.
Marjorie was an adult who had lived independently for decades. Sharing a fence and exchanging pie plates did not give me the right to question every visitor who entered her home.
So I tried to ignore my uneasiness.
Then the curtains closed.
Marjorie had always loved sunlight. She used to open every window on warm days and say that a dark house would eventually “begin feeling sorry for itself.”
Now every curtain remained tightly drawn, even in the middle of the afternoon.
Her porch chair sat empty.
At first, I blamed the heat. Then I blamed the wind. When the weather became mild and pleasant, the chair remained untouched.
Sometimes I would see movement behind the front window and wave.
Almost immediately, Owen would reach across and pull the curtain closed.
He never frowned at me. He never made a threatening gesture.
He simply shut me out.
