Her name was Vikki. She was fifty-four years old. She lived alone in a little house on our hill. Her house was so reticent and mossy and shouldered by brooding trees that you didn’t notice it from the street. She had two cats. She never married. Had no children. Was a bookkeeper, but when she was laid off, she never got another job-and never really came out of her house again.
We neighbors were discreet or cold or shy or ignorant...
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