That was when I understood 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 into the house next door with her husband, Rick, two years earlier.
Rick wasn’t their biological father, but everyone in the neighborhood regarded him as a friendly, successful family man. He installed home-security systems.
Cameras.
Alarms.
Smart locks.
He knew police officers and business owners throughout the county. He smiled at block parties.
Helped with school fundraisers.
Whenever Laura spoke, he often rested a hand against the back of her neck.
I used to think it seemed strangely possessive.
I never imagined how accurate that feeling was.
After discovering the note, I brought the flash drive inside and connected it to an old laptop.
Seven folders appeared.
PHOTOS.
RECORDINGS.
MONEY.
RICK’S TRUCK.
MOM’S PHONE.
DATES.
READ FIRST.
