CHAPTER TWENTY

C HAPTER T WENTY

As Chloe walked home from Shannon’s house, a heavy sense of unease settled in her chest, weighing her down with each step. Going through Rosella’s notes had been rough—they represented a maelstrom of confusion and apprehension coming from a woman who seemed, judging by her endless scribbles, trapped in a maze of her own making. Shannon wasn’t the only one who had once admired Rosella Marlow. The clarity and ease of her writing had always drawn Chloe in, but after looking through page after page of fragmented and disjointed thoughts, she couldn’t help but think somewhere along the way, Rosella’s words, like her thoughts, had escaped her, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

It made Chloe wonder whether Rosella had been one more person she had personally let down.

Chloe was the Forty-Fifth Street guardian, wasn’t she? The person who took it upon herself to maintain a sense of order and vigilance, watching over the people who lived there—the people she cared about. Chloe had always enjoyed keeping track of the ebb and flow of daily life, noting when someone’s routine deviated from the norm, which prompted her to check in. She was proud of her keen eye, taking notice of an overgrown lawn signaling a homeowner’s absence, or the unfamiliar car parked in someone’s driveway. By staying vigilant and watchful, she believed she was contributing to the greater good.

But Rosella’s notes and scribbles told another story: C is meddlesome and nosy. There she is again, walking, stopping, picking up garbage under the guise of keeping things neat and orderly while she peers into windows. Invasive, making residents feel as if they’re under constant surveillance.

Although Chloe tried not to care what Rosella believed, she did. She cared because there was some truth to what Rosella thought: Chloe was nothing but a bored housewife who was probably viewed by most as a nosy busybody.

She trudged onward, her feet feeling like cement blocks.

She needed to change.

The familiar street that before had provided her with comfort now seemed foreign. The once-friendly open windows and unlocked doors, now tightly shut, harbored shadows of uncertainty.

She stopped to look around, trying hard to conjure up better times. Smiling to herself, she thought of all the barbecues and Fourth of July parties they had enjoyed over the years: chairs lining the block, kids holding sparklers, laughing and drawing pictures in the sky. Sadly, the memories were tinged with nostalgia for a time that slipped further away with each passing moment.

The rapid growth of her children, once a source of great pride and joy, was another reminder of how fast time marched on. Whenever Wesley was away on business, she’d taken pride in being able to navigate the complexities of family life on her own. But lately, she realized, she felt alone. The sense of community that bound her and the neighbors together seemed to be dissipating, leaving a giant void in her heart. God, how she longed for the warmth of familiarity and the comforting embrace of the past. The large-paned windows where she would often see Rosella standing caught her eye. Chloe used to wave, which often prompted Rosella to look away. And now she was gone.

Chin up, Chloe thought. Enough groveling in despair. She’d done more than her fair share of feeling sorry for herself. It was time to brush herself off, get to the bottom of Rosella’s murder, and hopefully find a way to move on. With a newfound resolve coursing through her veins, she decided it was never too late to start over. If she were going to attempt to change for the better, she needed to self-reflect. Maybe even get feedback. She cringed at the thought of asking her children; their list would be long. Catching a glimpse of Dianne’s house as she made her way home, she had an idea about where to begin her journey to self-discovery and reconciliation.