Forrest Street was a fairly typical suburban neighborhood where the kids played out in the street, everyone nodded to their neighbor, and everyone knew everyone else’s routine. It didn’t take newcomers to learn that Mrs. Gracie likes to fetch her morning paper still wearing her nightgown, that Mr. Tyler was having an affair with a young lady that drove a dark blue Mercedes, or that the Franklin kid was the last person you should ever trust with watching your child or pet, but no one spoke of the kitten incident to newcomers.
It came as no surprise to anyone when Gregory Lightfoot’s truck wasn’t in his yard, and it came as no surprise when Mrs. Lightfoot pulled her car up on to her lawn one late afternoon. She often did that when he was away on a hunting trip, or out of town on the job.
Yes, everything on Forrest Street screamed of typical suburbia.
That was until the entire street was barricaded off with police tape. People through they had finally come for the Franklin kid, but the police were localized on the other end of the block.
Gasps and shocked expressions filled the evening air as police walked a handcuffed Mrs. Lightfoot out of her house and put her in the back of the patrol car. Screams and cries of horror replaced the shocked faces as police brought out the body bags. Seems Mrs. Lightfoot found herself a hobby.