“Shower’s still leaking into the ceiling in the kitchen, drywall’s falling into the kitchen. The tub taps drip, the wind whistles sometimes around the sliding glass doors. The caulking around our bedroom window is useless. I don’t even bother to take down the ladder. I’m squeezing caulking in every couple of weeks.”

“There’s another guy, lives in your neighborhood, says he’s had trouble with his windows, and wiring problems, you know? Breakers popping, that kind of thing.”

“We haven’t had that. Yet.”

I asked Kenny if he had the latest issue of Sci-Fi & Fantasy Models, which he didn’t, so I said I’d see him later and got back in the car.

Driving home, my thoughts turned to Angie. Our problems with shoddy house construction were minor compared to hers. Her world was falling apart. Paul had adapted to our move out here much better. He made friends more easily, didn’t place a lot of demands on them. As long as they were interested in playing video games and didn’t have any moral qualms about sneaking into movies that they weren’t supposed to see, that was good enough for him. He’d even struck up that semi-friendship with Earl, developed an interest in gardening and landscaping. Not that things were perfect with Paul. His marks were lousy. School bored him. There was that upcoming appointment with his science teacher. And now, there was this new development about Paul wanting to get a tattoo.

He and I would have to talk.

Maybe, I thought as I drove through the streets of Valley Forest Estates, I’d made a terrible mistake. I’d dragged us out here out of fear and delivered us into mediocrity. And then I shook my head and decided that my initial instincts had been right—the recent corner store robbery downtown reinforced my decision. Just because the suburban architecture was bland didn’t mean our lives had to be. We still had our interests and our passions no matter where we lived. We didn’t have to give those up just because we no longer lived downtown.

The evidence that we were safer here than downtown was still overwhelming, and I had that thought in mind when our house came into view and I spotted the unmarked police car parked at the curb out front.

“did you see anyone else near the creek before you found Mr. Spender’s body?”

His name was Flint. Detective Flint. Short, squat, in an ill-fitting suit, wearing a hat like you’d expect to see on Lee Marvin back in the 1960s. He was sitting across from me at the kitchen table, and he’d turned down my offer of coffee. His hands were busy making notes in a small reporter’s pad.

“Uh, no, I didn’t see anyone,” I said.

“Not coming out of the woods as you were going in, headed for the creek?”