He shook my hand.
“Faith? I’m Murray. Tell me about Hubert.”
So I did. Again.
He listened. Took notes. Didn’t interrupt.
When I finished, I twisted my hands in my lap.
“I know I’m just the old lady next door,” I said. “But if something happens to that boy and I sat on my hands…”
“You’re not just anything,” he said. “You’re someone who noticed. That matters. I’ll stop by this afternoon. Would you like to be there?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation.
“Alright then.”
That afternoon his cruiser pulled onto our street. He came to my door first.
“You ready?” he asked.
“Not even a little,” I said. “But let’s go.”
We walked to Hubert’s together.
Murray knocked. Firm, not aggressive.
After a moment the door opened a crack.
I saw one eye, a slice of his face.
“Hubert?” Murray said. “Hi. I’m Officer Murray. Your neighbor was worried.”
Hubert’s gaze flicked to me, then back.
“Is your mom home?” Murray asked.
“She’s working,” Hubert said.
“Okay,” Murray said. “Mind if I step in and talk for a minute? You’re not in trouble. I just want to make sure everything’s okay.”
Hubert narrowed his eyes.
“Do you have a warrant?”
I almost smiled. Twelve going on forty.
Murray’s mouth twitched.
“No warrant,” he said. “I’m not here to search. Just to check you’re alright.”
Hubert hesitated.
Then, from deeper inside the house, we heard a loud crack—like something heavy had fallen.
I jumped. Murray stiffened.
“What was that?” he asked.
“The house is old,” Hubert said quickly. “It does that.”
Murray looked at him calmly but firmer now.
“Hubert, step back, please.”
Hubert’s jaw tightened.
But he moved.
We walked inside.
The place felt wrong.
“Anyone home?” Murray called.
One ancient couch. A wobbly table. A couple of boxes. No pictures. No lamps. No sign of grown-up life.
The kitchen sink was full of dishes. Trash overflowing. A pot on the stove with something burned solid inside.
