When my neighbor marched across the lawn that Wednesday afternoon, I thought she was coming to complain about my trash cans again, or maybe the leaves I hadn’t raked yet. Instead, she planted herself at the edge of my driveway, folded her arms, and said something that made my stomach squeeze tight. “Your house gets so loud during the day, Marcus,” she said.
“Someone is shouting in there.”
I stood there with two grocery bags cutting into my fingers, still wearing my work slacks and the same blue button-down I’d thrown on at six in the morning. The November air in our little suburb outside Milwaukee had that thin, cold bite that slides right through a shirt. My breath puffed in the air between us.
I stared at her, waiting for the punch line. “That’s impossible,” I said. “I live alone.
And I’m at work all day.”
My neighbor, Ruth Halvorsen, had lived next door since my parents first moved to this house in the late eighties. She’d watched me learn to ride a bike on the sidewalk between our mailboxes. She’d watched me back Dad’s old Chevy out of this same cracked driveway the day I left for college.
She wasn’t the type to make up stories just to pass the time. “Well, someone’s in there,” she said, her gray eyebrows knitting together. “I heard yelling again around noon.
A man’s voice. Not the TV. Real shouting.
I went over and knocked. No answer. But I heard… movement.” Her voice softened just a little at that last word.
I shifted my grip on the bags, trying to make light of it. “Probably the TV,” I said. “I leave it on sometimes.
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