Who Killed Little Betty?
Timmy skipped rope on the sidewalk in front of his house, his pretty blue dress fluttered around scabbed knees, the matching bow in his hair bouncing with each jump.
His house was typical suburbia, same as most of the others on Brown Street, but transformed in its neglect. White paint was faded, filthy and peeling to bare wood. Windows were cracked, and the screen door lay twisted and torn next to the front steps. It festered like a lone boil on the otherwise healthy American street. The white picket fence was once sharp and clean. Now it faced the other houses, yards, and families of Brown Street like the grin of a corpse: old, rotten, and gap-toothed.
The house to the left of his was vacant, peaceful and expectant. The realtors had kept it up well, the pa
