Five total strangers shared the four-bedroom one-bathroom house on Roslyn Place, last I remembered. A scruffy fifty-something starving artist who made sculptures out of garbage he found while Dumpster diving. A one-armed vet with PTSD living in squalor because apparently his sacrifice and service to our country wasn’t worth the price tag of consistent mental health services. A college dropout girl who slept on the couch and did everyone else’s bidding. A wealthy hipster chick who wore pricey vintage but wanted to “experience life” by slumming it with four other strangers. And the person I came here to see. Though new faces were always coming and going, one consistent body waited for me inside. The one who made promises, promises.

Heading toward the house, I nervously fingered the delicate By Chari gold chain that rested on my collarbone, a Christmas gift from Debra after she discovered it was one of my favorite Black-owned businesses. I paused at the foot of the porch steps, second-guessing myself, wondering why I was even here.

Roslyn Place had the distinction of being one of the last remaining streets in the United States comprised entirely of wooden blocks. Installed in 1914, the creosote-soaked blocks were smoother and quieter than cobblestone, and served to muffle the clickety-clack of the horse-drawn carriages prevalent then. I remember reading somewhere that 26,000 blocks were required to cover the 250-foot thoroughfare. Amazingly the wood had held up over a century later, surviving the advent of the automobile in remarkably good condition. I imagined the iceman driving his wagon down the street with kids stealing chunks when he wasn’t looking, and a newsboy in knickers barking headlines on the corner.

I climbed several steps to the porch landing where Scruffy Artist sat on an Adirondack chair strumming a banjo, the bottom half of a Peeps marshmallow chick sticking out of his mouth, completely unaware of my presence. I knocked on the door. My nerves tingled. They always tingled when I showed up here. Fear of being seen. Fear of getting caught. Fear of the unknown. There were a lot of unknowns every time I came to Roslyn Place, because I only came here for one thing. And that one thing was make-it-or-break-it for me.

The door swung open.

“Mare Bear! Get your cute little ass in here for a hug!”

Brad Walters—I mean Brad Spielberg, as he insisted on calling himself in honor of his idol, the legendary director-producer-screenwriter—pulled me into his arms. At five-foot-two and a buck ten, he looked more hobbit than man. I imagined slipping him into my pocket for safekeeping, my little personal muse. When I lacked the courage to get a job done, the aspiring scenarist was there to remind me of the end goal. This time: murder.