“Okay, fine,” she sniffs. “We’ve had nothing but trouble around here when they went missing. People coming and going.”

Her name is Chantelle Potter. She’s lived in the neighborhood for ten years.

“Carrie and I were pretty good friends for the first few years. Hudson was kind of a loner, but he managed to make it to the annual block party. Nice people. A little different.”

We sit on a bench.

“Define different,” I ask.

She glances back at the house, her eyes landing for a split second on the upstairs window.

“Ellie,” she finally says. “I felt sorry for that girl. She went from being part of the playgroup around here to being nearly invisible. We hardly ever saw her until the last couple of years.”

I’m not sure what she’s getting at and I say so.

“Detective,” she looks right at me, “I can’t explain it.”

“Try.”

Chantelle takes a deep breath. “I saw Ellie in the yard one night and she was talking to someone on her phone. I couldn’t help but overhear.” She stops a moment and looks at me. “I’m not the eavesdropper type. Ask anyone.”

That meant, of course, she was the eavesdropper type. My favorite type, actually, when it comes to investigating a crime. People who mind their own business, bad. People who take in every drama around them, good.

“Of course not,” I say as convincingly as possible. “What did you hear?”

“She was crying. Saying that she couldn’t wait to get out of the house and go to college. Her parents were riding her all the time. That kind of thing. She said her situation was worse than that of whoever was on the other end of the phone.”

It sounded like the kind of conversation a million or more teenagers are having at this very moment.

She goes on. “And then Hudson came out and started barking at her, telling her to get her butt into the house and to give up her goddamn phone. She threw it over into the bushes in my yard. He came over and grabbed her by the arm. It was hard, but I didn’t think it was hard enough to be abuse or I would have called you people.”

She looks over at me.

“Do you think I should have called?”

What’s done is done, I think.

“No,” I say. “You were using your best judgement. I can see that you are second-guessing yourself now. There’s no need for that, Ms. Potter.”

She gives me a look of appreciation.

An eavesdropper with a conscience, better than mere good.

“What was Carrie like?” I ask.