Susan

Susan might have seemed like a normal older woman to most. She donated to the PTA despite having no kids of her own, volunteered at soup kitchens, and often made baked goods when any type of event was happening.

Everyone else was in shock to see her forced into a police car as bodybag after bodybag was taken from her house and pack into the back of a truck. But I wasn't surprised.

I knew she wasn't right when we first moved into neighborhood, I was seven and shy.

She greeted my parents with a smile and platter of cookies. Then looked down at me, hiding behind my dad's legs.

Susan bent down to my eye level and her smile went wider. She greeted herself, and asked my name. My parents had to tell her.

"Well, Dylan," She stretched out my name. "You can call me Suzy. Do you want a cookie?"

I didn't want a cookie. My parents apologized for my shyness, saying I would grow used to her in time.

Now ten years later, seeing her in cuffs, I'm glad I never got comfortable around her.

Growing up, I tried to limit my time around her, but it was difficult. She was always sitting on her porch, a book in hand, although she never read it because Susan was always watching. She invited into her house, tried to push baked goods into my hands, and call her Suzy.

I would say something along the lines of "Sorry Ms. Susan, I have plans." Before escaping. She would always frown when I called her Susan.

Her behavior was odd, but never to anyone else. I admit I felt relief seeing her be led away. Until she turned her head, caught my eye, and smiled.