When my family was living in Evanston, IL, our apartment was on the outskirts of a neighborhood of beautiful historic homes. Walking to the beach, to the university, to one of four nearby playgrounds, would take us past these gorgeous, multi-million dollar houses. It was strange, living in such close proximity to these homes that we will never be able to afford (I’m an author, my husband is an astrophysicist, I harbor no delusions about our chances of ever becoming rich). With a couple notable exceptions (one being a hulking brick structure buried in ivy, with peeling white columns and dark shuttered windows) the homes were meticulously cared for, beautifully detailed with finely maintained lawns and gardens of flowers and even the occasional vegetables, tomatoes and cucumbers and snap peas. Perfect.
All the more shocking when I found out about the bodies.
One of the houses that we’d pass…
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