Harry always wore two different shoes to work. One brown, the other black. Some presumed he might be colorblind, or in a rush when he dressed each day. They were wrong. Sure, the first time it happened, it was a mistake, but no one told him, and now he wondered how long he could continue the charade before someone pointed it out. He’d reached day two-hundred-fifty-six, and not a peep. Now an unconscious ritual, Harry’s fiancé worried he’d show up…
The kids were coming for Sunday dinner, and Matilda bustled around the kitchen. George dutifully stayed out of the way, one eye trained out the window as he waited. Scott arrived first, kids racing to the door. Nora trailed after with the baby, pausing as Mike and Hetty pulled in, offering hugs before everyone congregated on the porch. George hurried to warn them. “She’s made the casserole.” Groans replaced the laughter and hubbub. Nobody wanted to tell Matilda they detested…
He ducked under the crime scene tape and no one gave him a second glance as he squatted down and inspected the splatter and drag marks. He nodded, scribbling something in a small notebook. Behind him, the swarm of first responders collecting evidence took no notice of him. Why would they? Dressed to match them, he’d even remembered the disposable gloves this time. “Find anything?” a detective asked. “Not yet,” he lied, concealing the incriminating footprint. “Can’t believe he’s eluded…
The mission wasn’t over. Olivia glanced over her shoulder, making sure no one was watching. Drained the pot of boiling pasta, and pulled the glass pan from the microwave. Dropped the contents in a blender, and added the ingredients from a saucepan on the stove. The blender whirled to life when she flipped the switch. Noise reverberated around the kitchen. Feet clambered upstairs, and Olivia hurried to empty the mixture from the blender into the pan of macaroni before the…