Murder in the Neighborhood

My name is Bill. I live by myself and have a story to tell. It started on a drizzly and cold morning. I’m just settling down in my easy chair, ready to enjoy that first sip of morning coffee, when my front door starts being banged on. It was so loud it reminded me of a scene from a movie when the SS comes to a Jewish home. I jumped up and hurried to the door, only to find a young man and a small girl curled under his arm, asking—no, pleading—to use my phone. I step to one side and let them enter—no questions asked. As the young man walks by me, he whispers so the little girl can’t hear. “I think my wife has been murdered.”