The antique dealer, Mrs. Gable, watched Mrs. Henderson emerge from the gated drive. Not a simple driveway gate, oh no. The kind that looked like it guarded a medieval castle, complete with wrought-iron flourishes and a camera system that could probably identify a rogue squirrel from a mile away. Her breath hitched. Mrs. Henderson, in her sensible shoes and floral-print dresses, always seemed so...ordinary. The gate clicked shut, and Mrs. Gable stumbled backward, nearly tripping over a stack of chipped porcelain. A cold wave washed over her, and she gripped her stomach, feeling the familiar churning.
She thought of the casserole dish Mrs. Henderson had brought over last Christmas, the one she’d politely complimented on, and then promptly re-gifted. The nerve! The casual way she’d chatted about the book club, about the price of groceries, the woes of finding decent help. All a carefully constructed façade, obviously. Now, the image of that modest two-story house, so well-kept, so unassuming, swam before her eyes.
Her hands trembled as she reached for her phone. She needed to tell someone. The sheer audacity of it, of living right next door and pretending to be… normal. It made her stomach constrict. She’d always judged her own life, comparing it to what she believed Mrs. Henderson had. Now, the scales had shifted, and she didn't know which way was up.