The house next door’s been empty for a good six months. I remember John talking about buying it at one point, though he was living with me at the time. Two houses, that would’ve been classic—he could’ve kept his playmates over there and I’d never have known. We even took in the realtor’s tour once, looked around inside, but that’s as far as John went with it, thank God. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to see him now on a daily basis. My hands still shake with anger just thinking about him.
It’s a small house, one story, what they call a bungalow, with a wide front porch framed by twin columns and probably dates back to the late twenties. A Sears home, I think—mine is, too, but I have the second floor option with two bedrooms upstairs. I’m in the middle of redoing one of them, the one wh
