Trigger Warning:
This chapter contains themes of domestic abuse, child injury/violence, alcohol use, and adult situations. Reader discretion is advised.
"I'm telling you, he was a very kind guy," said Emily, a neighbor who lived across from the Kensingtons. "It's scary how alcohol can change a person." Bethany and Anastasia had caught her at a good time—she had just returned from grocery shopping with her kids and invited them inside.
"So you never heard any arguments before the murder took place?" Anastasia asked. Emily was taken aback; Bethany had been the one doing all the talking until she started taking notes.
"No. I've never even heard the man raise his voice before. Occasionally, the Kensingtons would host our book club meetings. I've never seen Marcie lift a finger," she said while restocking her pantry. "You should check with Margot and Flynn Sommerton next door. Maybe they would've seen or heard something."
"We really appreciate this, Mrs. Needlemire."
"Oh dear, call me Emily. And don't hesitate to stop by if you have more questions."
Both ladies exited the house—Bethany stretching and yawning. Across the street, Timothy was slowly making his way home. Just as they were about to approach him, his mother called him inside quickly, as if she had been watching through the window.
"Isn't that Mrs. Kensington?" Anastasia asked.
Bethany's mind was already spinning. If the situation was truly as horrible as Marcie claimed, why avoid the detectives? Then again, their goal today was to speak with neighbors and rattle Mrs. Kensington. And she definitely seemed rattled.
Two weeks passed while Bethany and Anastasia made frequent visits to the neighborhood—even when they had no questions. They spent hours with Emily, snacking and casually observing Marcie's movements.
No one had anything bad to say about Mr. Kensington. According to the neighbors, Mark was always helpful and occasionally volunteered with troubled youths. Bethany knew that abusers often put up a façade, but everything so far painted Marcie—not Mark—as the hostile one.
Flynn and Margot Sommerton confirmed more inconsistencies. Flynn had grown close to Mark when they first moved in. Mark was the first to welcome them, even hosting a barbecue so they could meet the neighborhood.
Marcie's report claimed the shotgun belonged to Mark, but Flynn insisted Mark hated guns and couldn't even unload one properly. Margot added that the night before the murder, there was yelling—but it was Marcie who drove off angrily, not Mark.
That was enough for Bethany.
They needed to speak with Mark's mother.
– • –
"Oh, it's so good to finally have company. Hector is always downstairs with the other older folks. He calls it socializing," said Lucinth, Mark's mother. She was pouring tea for her guests, her hands trembling slightly. She hadn't received visitors since Mark passed six weeks ago.
Bethany noticed the many family photos. There was one of Mark, as a child, standing in front of his mother; his father held a little girl. There were photos of Mark and Timothy—but none of Marcie.
"My condolences for the passing of your son, Mrs. Kensington," Bethany said, returning the photo to its place.
"Why thank you, dear. And please—call me Lucinth." As she reached for the tray of tea, Anastasia stepped in to help. Lucinth whispered a soft "thank you" before settling in her armchair. "So, how may I help you detectives today?"
"We came to ask a few questions about Mark," Bethany said.
"Oh, Markie…" She smiled sadly as tears welled in her eyes. "You know, this is the first time detectives have stopped by. We found out about his death from that friend of his… Flint, I think?"
"You mean Flynn?" Anastasia asked, sipping her tea.
"Yes, that's the one. He stopped by occasionally with Mark, you know." She paused. "I was so happy Mark finally had a friend."
"I see," Bethany said while taking notes.
"Detective, my Mark was a kind boy. When he was young, he'd go around helping neighbors—mowing lawns, watering gardens. He'd sneak food from the cabinets to feed strays. His father used to yell at him for it," she chuckled softly. "He'd say Mark was wasting good food."
"Who's the little girl in this picture?" Bethany asked, pointing to the photo.
"That's our Margaret. We lost her to gang violence. The neighborhood wasn't terrible, but it wasn't safe either. On their way home from school, rival gangs started shooting. Mark grabbed her hand, trying to hide, but she was hit by a stray bullet." She shook her head. "He and his father despised guns from that day."
"I find it strange he hated guns but still had one at home," Bethany said.
"It was that woman he married." Lucinth's face twisted in disgust. "Mark visited one day—sweating, panicked. He said he came home and there it was, lying on the floor by the door. She claimed it was for protection, even though she knew how he felt about weapons. What exactly was she protecting herself from in such a peaceful neighborhood?"
"As if she did it on purpose," Anastasia muttered.
"That's what I told him. I never liked that woman. She was never satisfied with anything Mark did. Always nagging, always complaining. When Timothy came, she softened—briefly. But after he was born, things got worse. Every time Mark visited us, he had a new bruise."
"So she was abusive?" Bethany asked.
"Indeed. Hector and I confronted him one day. He said all relationships have bad days. His father got so angry he told him not to visit unless he brought divorce papers."
"How long ago was that?"
"A week or two before he passed."
"Mr. Kensington must be heartbroken."
"He blames himself. Hardly sleeps at all."
"According to our report, Marcie said Mark was an abusive drunk. Did you ever see him intoxicated?" Bethany asked.
"Markie? An abusive drunk? Oh, no honey." Lucinth retrieved a photo album. "When he was a teen, he tried alcohol with friends—like most teens. We found him sleeping in the yard. He was a lightweight and a sleepy drunk."
Bethany flipped through more pictures. One showed Mark asleep in formal attire.
"Where was this taken?"
"His cousin's—my niece's—wedding. She begged him to drink. Five shots and he passed out in thirty minutes. After Timothy was born, he swore off alcohol."
"So he and Timothy were close?"
"Timmy was his pride and joy. Mark wanted a big family, but Marcie refused after complications. She told him he should be grateful she gave him one," Lucinth scoffed.
"What was she like with Timothy?"
"She wasn't terrible, but she used him to manipulate Mark. She'd constantly threaten to take Timothy to her parents."
Bethany felt a twinge of envy. Marcie had a man who adored his family—and still treated him horribly. Estefan wasn't perfect, but he wasn't this.
Bethany's phone chimed. She checked it, then pocketed it quickly.
"We thank you for your time, Lucinth," Bethany said, standing and handing over the photo album.
"The tea was lovely," Anastasia added, placing her empty cup down.
"Thank you both for coming," Lucinth said, smiling warmly.
The detectives exited the nursing home and got into Bethany's car.
"Where to next?" Anastasia asked.
"To the grocery store. We're out of milk—because someone keeps forgetting they're not the only one who drinks milk," Bethany snapped, glaring at Anastasia. Living with a roommate again was… an adjustment.
"But I need it for my smoothies."
"You could need it for a face mask, I don't care. You don't drink the entire box. That's inconsiderate." Bethany huffed as she pulled out.
– • –
"How long has it been since you came to the US?" Bethany asked while unpacking groceries. They agreed to buy individual items they'd call Unshare-ables.
"Two weeks," Anastasia replied while putting away her own items. She took the higher shelves because she was taller.
"We've been cooped up for too long. Let's go out and do something."
"I'd like to go clubbing."
"Then clubbing it is." Bethany grinned. She hadn't gone out in ages. Everyone her age was settling down, starting families. Cindy was busy being a stepmom to six kids—which Bethany still couldn't wrap her head around.
She put away the last item and hurried to her bedroom.
– • –
"Are you still not done yet?" Anastasia called impatiently. What could Bethany possibly be doing?
"I'm almost done!" Bethany yelled back, fastening her gold hoop earrings. She grabbed her nude purse, threw on her matching coat, and stepped out. Her coat, purse, and shoes were perfectly coordinated. Her burgundy dress hugged her curves nicely.
She opened the door and found Anastasia leaning against the frame. Anastasia wore a black leather jacket, a white top tucked into dark blue ripped jeans, a belt, and black leather shoes.
"Why are you dressed like the leader of a biker gang?" Bethany asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Who wears heels to a club?" Anastasia retorted.
"That's a dumb question—lots of women do."
Bethany brushed past her, checking her purse for cash, card, keys, lip gloss, and phone. She headed to the car while Anastasia locked the front door.
Inside the car, Bethany removed her coat and tossed it into the backseat. Her phone chimed, instantly grabbing her attention. She opened the new tracking app she had installed, eyes narrowing.
"Are you not going to drive?" Anastasia asked from the passenger seat, startling her.
"Oh my God—when did you get in? I could've sworn you were still at the door!"
"I got in a few minutes ago."
"You could've made a sound." Bethany muttered, flustered, as she started the car.
"I did. This is why they say not to use your phone around the wheel."
"I wasn't even driving yet." Bethany rolled her eyes and pulled out.
– • –
"Are you sure you know where this club is?"
"Shhh." Bethany held up a finger. "Yes, I'm sure."
But the truth?
Bethany wasn't tracking a club.
She was tracking Marcie.
The notification was an alert—Marcie was on the move. Why was she leaving her house at 10:49 PM with an 8-year-old at home?
Minutes later, a man and woman burst out of a bar mid-argument.
"Isn't that Mrs. Kensington?" Anastasia asked.
Bethany looked up immediately.
"Quick," she whispered, pushing Anastasia. "Into the alley."
They slipped into the shadows. Marcie glanced toward the alley, but saw nothing.
Bethany crouched behind a barrel and recorded the scene through a gap.
"You said we'd be together!" Marcie yelled, her tone desperate.
"I know what I said—but that was before I realized how crazy you are!" the man shouted back. "I can't be with you."
"But you said you loved me. You said we'd be a family if I got my husband out of the way!"
"Divorce, Marcie." He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Normal people get divorced when they're unhappy. They don't commit murder."
"But we would've collected the insurance money!"
"No. Nuh-uh. I don't want no parts. Do you know what they'd do to a brother like me in jail? You've lost your mind if you think I'm going down as an accomplice." He got in his car and sped off.
Marcie yelled, kicked over a garbage bin, then stormed into her car and drove off too.
Well… would you look at that.