Mrs. Dodd huffed around her kitchen angrily gathering the remnants of her breakfast into the kitchen sink. How dare that young witch say that to her? Why, she couldn’t help it if voices carried through open windows, could she? She reached one gnarled hand down to pet her cat, Pumpkin. “It is easier to hear, I’ll admit,” she said softly, “when you happen to be right under the window.” She chuckled. She was sure that what she had heard was right in some aspects. There was a serial killer loose in Temple. Of that she was certain. But she agreed with the funny looking red-haired cop. The man that had died in jail was guilty. Maybe Simms hadn’t been here when the man was the talk of her small community, but Mrs. Dodd had. She had seen his eyes herself, glaring out of the newspaper. It had to be him. Or did it? Maybe she was all wrong. Maybe what she thought was the right path was, in fact, the wrong one. And a dangerous one at that. She wasn’t scared for herself, though she was admittedly an old woman.
