Every Sunday, the two children next door walked along our street carrying one black trash bag.
Everyone thought they were picking up litter.
Then one afternoon, I saw nine-year-old Ben crouch beneath the bushes outside my window and hide something in the dirt.
After he left, I went outside.
Under the leaves was a plastic bag containing a silver flash drive and a folded note.
My name was written on the front.
MRS. CARTER.
I opened it.
If our mom disappears, give this to the police.
Do not give it to Rick.
Do not tell him we left it here.
That was the moment I realized those children had never been cleaning our street.
They had been leaving evidence.
