Part 1
Dylan recently moved to the subdivision. He was swept by the word-of-mouth regarding how peaceful the neighborhood was. To be fair, the ad stayed true for the first month of his stay here—that was, before the murder took place.
He had just gotten out of the mall, carrying the goods he bought-quinoa, eggs, bread, veggies, some fresh flowers, and, of course, his go-to herbal coffee. Really, it would be a mortal sin to miss a day of his 7-in-1 coffee mix. No one knew if this miracle drink was the culprit behind his deceptively youthful look and healthy bod at the tender age of forty, or if it was just because of his preference for whole foods. Was he just too gullible? The drink may just be a placebo, after all. No matter. The coffee would start his day, so he needed to have it.
He was heading toward his block now.
He passed by the home of the late Mrs. Carol Welch. Just outside the fence, he neatly placed his flowers on top of a bunch. Passersby and neighbors did this every now and then since the murder. They'd pay respects and think of the unfathomable thing that happened to her.
Dylan also read some posters saying, “Justice for Carol" while standing emotionless.
"You can never really trust anyone." A lady in her mid-fifties in a black veil spoke to him out of the blue. She, too, laid her flowers on the ground using her mildly trembling hands.
"He was a fine lad, you know." Dylan assumed she was talking about Ricky now. "Sure, he's got temper issues, but you can't picture him taking someone's life." He just listened. "At least, I can't."
This Ricky, now imprisoned at a high-security correctional facility, was the prime and sole suspect in the horrendous killing. Legends say this Ricky guy had a heated public argument with the victim— a big-time argument. Picture this: some time later, Mrs. Welch was dead, Ricky's gun was at the scene, and there was something about his DNA too. Bonus point: he would get frantic and inconsistent during the interrogations. Of course, guilty as charged.
"Carol was prying and loud, but she was a kind soul," the lady just kept talking. "I liked her, you know."
"She was indeed kind," now Dylan thought he should take his turn to speak. Mrs. Welch reminded him of his mother a lot; maybe because of the paleness or the ginger hair, or maybe their bluntness.
He cleared his throat. "Mr. Ricky deserves some serious jail time."
"Oh! That bastard... he deserves to rot in jail," she uttered those words surprisingly calmly. "And burn in hell thereafter " They seeped through Dylan's bones, and they stuck with him 'til they parted ways.
