“I always thought Mrs. Gable was just the neighborhood lunatic, until her trembling hand slid a note under my door. ‘He’s not who you think he is,’ she whispered through the wood, her voice sharp with terror. ‘I’ve seen what’s in his trunk.’ My blood ran cold as I heard my husband’s car pull into the driveway. If she’s right, I’m sleeping next to a monster. But how do you escape when the front door is locking from the outside?”
The Cracked Mask For three years, I believed I lived in the perfect suburban bubble in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. My husband, Mark, was a respected pediatric surgeon, the kind of man who brought flowers for no reason and volunteered at the local animal shelter. Our only grievance was Mrs. Higgins, the “Crazed Widow” across the…