over. I dared to take a couple of steps into the alley. It was barely wide enough for two people to walk side-by-side, and it wound crookedly behind backyards, walled on both sides by everything from wooden fences to dense shrubs, to the backs of sheds. The houses these belonged to had been built on streets facing opposite directions. Their backyards would have met in the middle if not for this passageway, which was shaded by their trees—everything from willow to cypress.
Most of the backyards seemed to have gates that opened into the alley. It was on one of these gates that I found one more bit of paint. It was such a little smudge, at first I wasn’t sure if it was the same paint. It was a thin layer, barely the size of a dime, and it was already dry. Still, it was definitely a similar hue, and it was completely out of place on the black gate handle.
I held my breath as I slowly lifted the gate handle. Don’t do anything stupid , I recalled Blythe saying. Well, this might be stupid, but I hadn’t exactly promised her I wouldn’t, had I? I pulled the gate open. It caught on the uneven concrete with an awful scraping noise. I froze, waiting. For what? The killer to whack me? I shook off my fear and lifted the gate a little as I pulled this time. It opened the rest of the way with relatively little noise. Well, at least now I knew this gate’s quirks, just in case I ever needed to trespass onto a dangerous criminal’s property again.
I found myself on a broken-up concrete path running along the edge of a grassy backyard dotted with a few too many dandelions. The dandelions contributed to the demise of the path, competing with the thistles sprouting up through the cracks. It pains me to say that my bare feet discovered the thistles. But I bit my lip and gingerly stepped forward. I glanced back at the gate, and decided to leave it open in case I needed to make a quick escape. Hopefully the homeowner wouldn’t look out the window and notice it was ajar. Then again, if anyone looked out the window, I was pretty much doomed. This yard offered no cover whatsoever for my covert operation. I was hardly small enough to hide behind the smattering of toy dump trucks, and my butt was a bit too round to flatten myself to the ground behind the classic plastic turtle-shaped sand box.
Was this the killer’s house, or had he or she merely chosen this as part of an escape route? I had to look for another clue. Or at least find out who lived here. Even if it wasn’t the killer, chances were this house was known to them. I didn’t know what else to do, so I darted to the side of the house and flattened myself against it. At least, if anyone was inside, they wouldn’t see me. That’s why they do that in all the spy movies, right? Or was that just to avoid stray—or not so stray—bullets? Either way, it made me feel better than standing by the fence.
But now what? I studied my surroundings as best I could without actually moving. No sign of green paint, as far as I could tell. I edged closer to the window. Maybe a peek inside would provide another clue. The window was open to the spring air. On the other side of the screen, yellow curtains wafted back and forth in the breeze. With the slope of the yard, I had to pop up on my tiptoes to get a glimpse inside. So, this was the kitchen window. I spotted a sink full of cereal bowls. I don’t know what I’d expected to see—a bloody spatula floating among the soggy Fruity-Os, which forensics would discover was the real murder weapon, thanks to me and my sleuthing?
I could hear distant murmurs within the house. Someone was home! But the sounds seemed like they were coming from upstairs. There was no way I was going in there while someone was home, and there was little chance of spotting anything useful through the windows, especially without getting caught. Thinking about the occupants on the second floor brought to mind the obvious—the neighboring house was a two-story, too. The
Most of the backyards seemed to have gates that opened into the alley. It was on one of these gates that I found one more bit of paint. It was such a little smudge, at first I wasn’t sure if it was the same paint. It was a thin layer, barely the size of a dime, and it was already dry. Still, it was definitely a similar hue, and it was completely out of place on the black gate handle.
I held my breath as I slowly lifted the gate handle. Don’t do anything stupid , I recalled Blythe saying. Well, this might be stupid, but I hadn’t exactly promised her I wouldn’t, had I? I pulled the gate open. It caught on the uneven concrete with an awful scraping noise. I froze, waiting. For what? The killer to whack me? I shook off my fear and lifted the gate a little as I pulled this time. It opened the rest of the way with relatively little noise. Well, at least now I knew this gate’s quirks, just in case I ever needed to trespass onto a dangerous criminal’s property again.
I found myself on a broken-up concrete path running along the edge of a grassy backyard dotted with a few too many dandelions. The dandelions contributed to the demise of the path, competing with the thistles sprouting up through the cracks. It pains me to say that my bare feet discovered the thistles. But I bit my lip and gingerly stepped forward. I glanced back at the gate, and decided to leave it open in case I needed to make a quick escape. Hopefully the homeowner wouldn’t look out the window and notice it was ajar. Then again, if anyone looked out the window, I was pretty much doomed. This yard offered no cover whatsoever for my covert operation. I was hardly small enough to hide behind the smattering of toy dump trucks, and my butt was a bit too round to flatten myself to the ground behind the classic plastic turtle-shaped sand box.
Was this the killer’s house, or had he or she merely chosen this as part of an escape route? I had to look for another clue. Or at least find out who lived here. Even if it wasn’t the killer, chances were this house was known to them. I didn’t know what else to do, so I darted to the side of the house and flattened myself against it. At least, if anyone was inside, they wouldn’t see me. That’s why they do that in all the spy movies, right? Or was that just to avoid stray—or not so stray—bullets? Either way, it made me feel better than standing by the fence.
But now what? I studied my surroundings as best I could without actually moving. No sign of green paint, as far as I could tell. I edged closer to the window. Maybe a peek inside would provide another clue. The window was open to the spring air. On the other side of the screen, yellow curtains wafted back and forth in the breeze. With the slope of the yard, I had to pop up on my tiptoes to get a glimpse inside. So, this was the kitchen window. I spotted a sink full of cereal bowls. I don’t know what I’d expected to see—a bloody spatula floating among the soggy Fruity-Os, which forensics would discover was the real murder weapon, thanks to me and my sleuthing?
I could hear distant murmurs within the house. Someone was home! But the sounds seemed like they were coming from upstairs. There was no way I was going in there while someone was home, and there was little chance of spotting anything useful through the windows, especially without getting caught. Thinking about the occupants on the second floor brought to mind the obvious—the neighboring house was a two-story, too. The
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