Four weeks later, Jim and Lisa put their house on the market.

Within days, there was a pending-sale sign outside.

They moved out in late November.

A moving truck arrived early Saturday morning.

Boxes disappeared into it.

Cars were packed.

They clearly wanted the process finished as quickly as possible.

As Emma climbed into the car, she looked toward me.

She was seventeen.

Whatever mistakes her parents had made, she was still a teenager who had followed the adults around her.

I raised my hand.

She raised hers.

Then they drove away.

That evening, Tom and I used the hot tub.

The November air was cold enough that thick clouds of steam rose from the water.

Our other neighbors, Frank and Helen, had their lights on next door.

Everything sounded wonderfully ordinary.

Tom poured two glasses of wine.

After several quiet minutes, I said:

“Frank and Helen never used our hot tub.”

Tom laughed.

“Not that we know of.”

I smiled.

“Good thing the camera faces the right direction.”

For a while, we said nothing.

I thought about everything that had happened.

Lisa standing at our door pretending to complain.

The camera footage.

The green dye.