The neighbors gathered around the small gate on the white picket fence. From there, they could barely read the sign posted on the front door of 536 Pleasant Lane.
Foreclosure.
They gossiped about the neighbor that they had never gossiped about before. He'd been pretty normal: brought hot dogs to the block party, set off fireworks for the kids on the Fourth of July, kept his lawn nice and trim. None of them had been inside the home, and he didn't extend invitations. But the foreclosure notice sparked their imaginations.
"I heard his investments went awry."
"He's old. Maybe he just forgot to make payments."
"He embezzled from his company, and he's appearing in court soon."
"Counterfeit money."
"Identity theft."
"Fraud."
Their guesses escalated, but their imaginations weren't dark enough for the truth. They didn't know that a few days later, the bank would enter the house and discover a smell. They didn't know that the police would be called in to investigate. They didn't know that investigators would find blood in the floorboards and bones in the basement. Saws, hatchets, hooks.
They didn't know any of that, so they simply gossiped about the house with the white picket fence, blissfully unaware (for a few more weeks, at least) of the deaths behind the door.
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