before my flight, our neighbor stopped by for dinner.
Gary repeated a story about Cynthia choosing mouse ears at Disney.
“She wanted the pink ones,” he said.
I paused.
Pink?
During the police interview, he had sworn they were purple.
I had been sitting beside him.
“Pink?” I asked casually. “I thought you said purple.”
Gary didn’t hesitate.
“Did I? I can barely keep anything straight anymore.”
Our neighbor smiled sympathetically.
I didn’t.
Whenever I suggested reaching out to Gary’s estranged sister, Rhonda, he changed the subject.
Years earlier, the
