Molly
I am wiping down the kitchen island when I hear footsteps. Heavy. Fast. Angry.
I turn just in time to see Charles standing in front of me, chest rising, eyes sharp and dark.
“Charles,” I say. “When did you get here?”
“Where is he?” he asks, already scanning the room like he expects someone to jump out from behind the counter. “Someone was here.”
I blink. “How did you know?”
His gaze snaps back to me. “So someone was?”
I sigh, setting the cloth down. “Yes. Someone was here. But he already left.”
Charles moves closer, every muscle tense. “Who was it? Where is he?”
I lift a hand. “Calm down. It was our new neighbor. Robert.” I point to the island where a vase of flowers sits beside a covered pie dish. “See. He even brought flowers and pie. Very serial killer behavior, I know.”
