Mary Shoemaker swallowed her pill with a glass of milk, as she did every morning.
      “Hey, Grandma!”
      Her granddaughter walked into the room, her blonde, shoulder-length hair flipping outward on the ends. She pulled the dark framed glasses from her face.. “I'm off to the store. Need anything that's not on the list?”
     Mary smiled. “Yes, Carol. Could you get me some gardening gloves?”
     “Sure. I'll be back in a little bit.” Having thus said, she flew out the door with her purse.
     Mary grinned, enjoying every moment of her seventeen-year-old granddaughter's summer visit. Finishing her lunch, she went outside to start on the garden. The sun was so very hot, and it felt as if it were burning her aged skin. The longer she worked, the weaker she grew. Her stomach was hurting, screaming out in tormenting pangs. She thought back about what she'd eaten, but there was nothing that she hadn't been eating every day for the last fifty years.
     Nauseous, she stood up and wiped the dirt off her knees. If she could just get out of the sun, to the swing on the porch. If she could just rest her bones, she was sure it would go away...
     Pain exploded in her stomach—vomit pushed up her throat, sputtering from her mouth. She fell to the ground, gasping, her stomach cramping without end. If she could just get out of the sun, she thought, then it would be okay...

><><><><><><><

     Carol came walking down the sidewalk, whistling with her paper bags of groceries. She stopped when she reached the house. The grocery bags fell from her arms, crashing against the concrete. “Grandma!” She burst forward, falling onto the ground beside the older woman. She turned her over, fear penetrating her heart. “Grandma, can you hear me?” she rasped. “Grandma? Grandma!”
      A neighbor who'd been mowing his lawn came rushing over. “What's wrong?”
      Carol looked up at him, her face twisting. “She's knocked out cold! She must have fainted! I told her not to be in the sun too long!” She was sobbing now and she let her young neighbor push her away.   
     He knelt down beside Mary, felt for her pulse, pressed his hands against her cheeks. He looked up at Carol, grimness pulling his lips into a frown. “She's...dead.”
     “What?” She backed away, shaking her head against his words. “No, she can't be.” Her body shook with gut-wrenching sobs. “She's not dead! She's not!”
      Her neighbor stood, catching her as she nearly collapsed. He held her against him, wishing with all his might that he was wrong.

><><><><><><><

      Eugene Captain, Carol's neighbor, drove her to the hospital. They waited together in the waiting room, while the doctors tried to diagnose what had killed her.
     Carol stood up when the doctor came through the door. “Uh, Miss Shoemaker, I don't know how to say this...”
      She gulped down a sob, falling back into the chair. She looked at him with dull, red eyes. “What does it matter? She's already dead. Just tell me.”
      Eugene watched the emotions cloud the doctor's face, then caught his breath as his words filled the room, “She died of poisoning.”
     

><><><><><><><

     Eugene waited until they were at their houses, still sitting in his car. From the moment Carol had moved here for the summer, he'd been yearning for a chance to get to know her. But she'd had different ideas. She had a different boy picking her up every Saturday, and she'd never given him more than a nod or a slight smile.
     Eugene studied her now, compassion alighting his eyes, thinking not for the first time how beautiful she was. “I expect you'll be calling your parents, huh?”
      She started to cry again. “They're in Europe for the summer.” She cupped her hand over her mouth, muffling another gut-wrenching sob. “Oh, what am I going to do?”
      Eugene said nothing, and after a moment, she composed herself. She drew in a shattered breath and yanked her glasses off her face. “Thank you...uh...”
      “Eugene.” He couldn't believe she didn't know his name. “And your welcome.”
      There was a pause and her face was that of utter torment. Finally she whispered, “Who could have done this? Why would anyone want my grandma dead? Who could have hated her that much?”
      “Maybe it was an accident. Maybe she got confused and drank something...”
      She nodded. “Yeah, I suppose that's probably it.” She thanked him again and got out of the car.
      Before she shut the door, he held out a small slip of paper. “I know I just live next door, but if you need something, just call.”
      “Thanks.” She took the paper and slammed the door, then ran up to her porch and disappeared inside.

><><><><><><><

      He jumped, startled by the phone at his bedside. He glanced at the clock. Who would be calling at one o'clock in the morning?
     Rubbing his eyes, he grabbed the phone. “Hello?”
     “...Eugene...” the voice was desperate, but he couldn't tell who it was.
     “Who is this?”
     No answer.
     “Hello?”
     He heard the voice again, muffled and indistinct. “Help...please...” And then there was nothing.
     Eugene stood up. He racked his mind... Whose voice had it been?
     His heart stopped, and he nearly knocked the lamp over in attempt to grab his clothes. It was Carol.

><><><><><><><

     She needed to get up. She tried to make her feet move. She had to make it to the bathroom, but her stomach was killing her...
     She gagged, then retched in the bed. Weary, she pushed her hair away from her face, still sweating. She could hardly breath, hardly even think. She had never felt so sick before, never felt so drained and...
     Again, she started retching. The pain was worse—like tiny knifes jabbing at her stomach, like fire blazing flesh, like lion eating prey...
     Hands touched her face, then lifted her from the bed. She heard a voice, but she couldn't tell what they were saying, and the pain kept ripping at her stomach...
    “Help me...” she rasped. And then her world plunged into darkness.

><><><><><><><

     Eugene sat rigid in the waiting room, his eyes blood-shot. Poisoned. Someone had poisoned her, just like Mary. Someone wanted them dead. Someone had succeeded. Someone was succeeding again...
     Eugene leaned back in the chair. He felt sick to his stomach, as the horror of what had happened seeped into his soul. Who would tell her parents that their daughter was struggling for her life? Who would tell the family that there was a murderer out there, striking easily and quickly, without leaving a trace as to who he was?
      A nurse came into the room and began talking to another family. He waited until she was done, then  approached her. “Ma'am? Do you know anything about Carol Shoemaker—the girl who was poisoned?”
      She nodded with a frown. “Yes. I'm afraid she isn't doing well. Her body is hardly able to fight off the poison.”
      “Are the police doing anything?”
      She sighed. “They still don't know for sure if the poisoning was suicidal or homicidal. She'll be interviewed when she awakes.”
      Eugene sighed. “Listen, here's my phone number. If she wakes up, could you call me? Her parents can't be here, and I don't know of anyone that could visit her.”
     “That shouldn't be a problem.”
      Eugene thanked her then left. His next stop was Carol's house. It was time he found out what was going on.

><><><><><><><

     Eugene stood in the kitchen, holding the half drank glass of milk in his hand. The house was kept completely tidy; the food was all in the cabinets; there was nothing out of place in the small kitchen...
     Except the glass of milk. He fingered the glass in his hand, then smelled it. Maybe this was all she'd drank. Maybe she'd been so exhausted and grief-stricken that she'd skipped supper last night and just gulped down some milk. Maybe...
     He heard a knock at the door. He set the cup down and went to answer it. There stood Garl Longswim, the milk man, dressed in his usual white jacket and cap, with his red bow and his container of milk. “Hi ya, Eugene! How's it going?”
      Eugene surveyed him, drinking in his almost child-like features, his calm eyes, quick smile. He'd been a friend for so long, but if the milk was the poisoned...
      “Here's ya milk...or rather...their milk. I heard about Miss Mary dying. Ain't it a shame!” He handed Eugene the milk. “Nice old woman! And her poor granddaughter! What a pity!” He tipped his hat, and again he smiled. “Well, see you later, Eugene, old buddy! I'm off on me rounds again!”
      And then he was gone, and Eugene just stood there by the door, gripping the milk in his hands.

><><><><><><><

      The chief police hung up the phone. “Yeah,” he said, his eyes on the glass, “There's poison in this milk, alright.”
      “Which means that someone tried to kill them.”
      The police leaned back in his chair. “More than likely.”
      Another officer came into the room, holding one of the new milk bottles that Garl had given Eugene earlier that morning. “This one's poisoned too,” he said to the chief.
      Eugene shot the chief a look. “Isn't that proof that this is murder?”
      The secretary's voice announced through the speaker that he was wanted on the phone. He answered with his eyes still on Eugene, “Chief Winters. How can I help you?”
      Eugene couldn't hear their words, but the chief's face grew instantly grim, his eyes grew heavy, and he sighed deep in his chest as if the job were too overwhelming for him. When he finally hung up, he stayed silent for a long minute. “What street do you and Carol live on?”
      “Cherry Street, sir.”
      The chief nodded, and again fell into silence. Finally he grunted. “A man and his wife were just brought into the hospital—poisoned.”
       “Their names?”
       “Mr. and Mrs. Grams. I believe they live on your street.”
       Eugene swallowed. His chest was tight...so tight it was killing him. “Uh...yeah...they do.” He'd mowed their yard for as long as he could remember, they'd bought his middle-school fund raiser every year. They'd pumped up the flat tires on his bike a million times...
      “How...are they?”
      “In critical condition. I believe Mrs. Grams isn't going to make it. Her husband has a better chance...possibly. His dosage was lower than hers. Must of drank less milk.”
      Eugene nodded. “Now what?”
      “Now—” the chief stood from his chair— “we arrest Mr. Longswim.”
      “But what if it was someone else?”
       The chief's face was stern, his mind made up. “Who, do you suppose, poisoned the milk? It goes straight from him to their house. No one else could have done it even if they wanted to.” He leaned out the door and called for some of his officers. Then he turned back to Eugene with an outstretched hand. “Thanks for everything, sir. It took an ingenious mind to even make a connection with the milk. You've made my job easy. You've delivered the killer right into my hands.”
      Eugene nodded—wondering why the chief’s words gave him such a chill. Of course it was the milk man, he thought. There was no one else it could be.

><><><><><><><><

      The police took over. They arrested Garl Longswim, searched his house, and found the poison. There was no more question in anyone's mind who the killer was...
       Eugene answered his phone when it rang.
      “Hello, this is the nurse you spoke to a few days ago. I just wanted to let you know that Miss Carol's awake now.”
       Eugene sighed mentally, relief washing over him. “So she's doing better?”
      “Much. I think she'll be just fine with a bit more rest.”
      “Good. I'll be right over.”
     

><><><><><><><><

    She closed her eyes. She wished she could block everything out—wished all the noises would go away—wished the pounding in her temples would stop. Where was she? She thought about asking, opening her lips, speaking the words... But the thought seemed too overwhelming, so she just lay there, hurting and confused, yearning for something familiar to draw her out of this nightmare.
      “Carol?”
      The voice was soft, caring—but it wasn't the voice of her parents, it wasn't the voice of her grandma, or her best friend from back home... 
       A finger stroked her cheek, and it made her feel relaxed, as if she were just assured that everything was fine and she was only dreaming.
      “Carol, can you hear me?” A pause. “It's Eugene.”
      Eugene. She knew that name; she knew that voice. But she couldn't picture the face, didn't know why it brought on a rush of pain...
     A sudden memory penetrated her mind, making her suddenly weaker than before. Her grandma lying on the ground... The doctor telling her it was poison... Sitting in a neighbor boy's car and crying...
      She forced her lids open. The room was a blur of painful colors, then a face cleared. “Where...where am I?” she nearly choked over the words.
      He smiled very tenderly. “You're in the hospital, but you're gonna be okay.”
      She let that news sink in, tried desperately to remember what had happened. But everything was a frightened blur to her, and finally she whispered, “Why?” There were tears in her eyes as she looked at him, waiting...
     He slid his hand over hers. “You were poisoned.”
     “Poisoned?” she breathed the words back to him. “I was poisoned?”
     He nodded, patting her hand. “But the man was caught. You don't have to be afraid. He's in jail, now.”
     She was silent for a long time. Finally, she asked, “Who was it? Who would want to kill me?”
     Eugene hesitated, then he sighed heavily. “They say it's the milk man.”

><><><><><><><><

      Eugene came home to a still, silent house. He slumped into a chair—laid his head against the back. He was about to close his eyes...
     His heart stopped. Every muscle went rigid. Perspiration appeared on his forehead in tiny bumps. There was writing on the wall of his living room—bloody letters that streaked the clean paint. He read them slowly, unbelieving, his heart going mad in his chest...
     SECRETS AND LIES, NOW SOME OF YOU DIES. 
     He swallowed hard. He stood to his feet, clumsily, weakly, hardly able to breath as he stumbled towards the phone. He punched in the numbers, then waited as it rang. Once, twice, a third frightening time...
     “Chief Winter. Can I help you?”
      His voice came out raspy, breathless, “Someone's been here. The killer. They left a note of blood on my wall...” His words trailed off. He looked up his hallway, long and dark. The silhouette of a man stood there, enclosed in the shadows, watching him quietly, not breathing a word.
      The phone slipped from his grasp, clamored against the tile floor. Eugene just stood there in terror, petrified by the silence of the stranger that was watching him from within the shadows...

><><><><><><><

     Chief Winter's voice rang in the small office, loud and irritated. “Eugene? Eugene? Hello?” He slammed the phone down, and ran a hand over his sweaty forehead. “Trevor! Bert!” he barked out the names of his men, and glared at them when they entered. “We're going to Eugene’s house. There's trouble.”
     Bert hesitated for a moment. “Uh...sir...”
     The chief's jetty eyebrows lowered. “What is it, man? Speak up! We've got an emergency on our hands!”
      “Sir, there was another woman murdered on Cherry Street. Her friend just found her a few minutes ago.”
     “How was she murdered?”
     “It appears that she died of poisoning sometime yesterday, but...um...”
     “But what?” he shouted.
     “But she's been...cut open, sir. Blood everywhere.”
     Chief Winter threw open the door. “We've got to get to Eugene. We'll deal with this later.” And the three men were gone.

><><><><><><><

     Eugene didn't move, even when he heard his name being called. There were footsteps in his house, sirens blaring outside—but still, nothing made sense to him.
     Then the chief of the police station burst into the room. “Eugene! You alright, man?”
     Eugene forced his eyes to look at him. He swallowed, leaning against the wall to support himself. “He was here...” he breathed the words quietly, his eyes dull.
     Chief Winters nodded.
     Eugene gritted his teeth. “He was here...while we were talking. I saw him, standing there.” He pointed towards the dark hallway. “He was watching me, not saying anything.” He paused, and his voice grew quieter. “Just watching me.”
     Chief Winters' face changed. “Then he can't be far from here. I'll get the men to search the neighbor hood.” He picked up his radio, barked out the orders, then stared at Eugene for a long moment. “So,” his voice was less professional now, more compassionate. “What happened?”
     “I just stood here—didn't do anything. He looked at me, for a long time. Then he just quietly slipped away out the door.” His eyes were weary, ashamed. “The killer was right here—and I just let him walk away!”
     Chief Winter put a hand on his shoulder. “I can't say that my men would have done any different. I wouldn't beat yourself up about it.” 
      Eugene couldn't speak, for fear the tears swelling in his eyes would escape. And then a thought occurred to him. The milk man was in jail...and the killer was free. And he wasn't done yet.

><><><><><><><><

     Eugene backed away. He choked back a sob. He brought his hands to his cheeks, then pushed them against his temples with his fingers. “No...” he breathed. He shook his head, but the chief only nodded.
     “Yes, I'm sorry.” He'd brought Eugene here for questioning—to get more information about the stranger found in his house. The stranger who still roamed the neighborhood, unrevealed, unsuspected, lethally striking against the innocent occupants of Cherry Street. “The hospital just called.”
     Eugene's breath shattered. He pulled out a chair and sank into it, burying his face.
     “I didn't know you knew her that well.”
      Eugene's head shot up. “I didn't!” he said. “But she was my neighbor...and she was so young...and beautiful. Who'll tell her parents? Who'll tell them that their daughter was murdered—ruthlessly, without reason? At the hands of a maniac killer?” Again he stood and walked to the window. He didn't speak for a minute, as if composing himself, then he asked quietly, “How did he get in there? How did he get in there with no one seeing him?”
      The chief stood as well. “I don't know, but whoever it was, not only stabbed Miss Shoemaker, but killed a nurse in the same room.” He read the emotion crossing over the younger man's face, and not for the first time, he wondered why he'd ever wanted to be a police. “Man, I know this is hard. But we'll find the guy who is doing this.”
     “Will we?” He turned around and eyed the chief. “What if we make another mistake? Like we did with Garl Longswim?” His jaw popped. “Every mistake we make, Chief, is a life lost.”
      “Don't you think I know that?” Chief Winters frowned. “We're doing the best we can. The killer is brazen; he's not afraid to make his move. And the next time he does,” he set a hand on Eugene's shoulder, “we're going to catch him and this will be over.”
      Eugene's eyes roamed back to the window. “I hope so.”

><><><><><><><><

      Eugene stopped on his way out. Garl Longswim stood there, his arms tightly around his blonde-haired wife. “...I'm out, Bertha. All this is over. It's gonna be okay, now, hon,” he heard him telling her.
     He started to walk past them, but Garl grabbed his arm. “Hey, Eugene! Ho! Not even a hello?”
     Eugene stared at him. There were tears in the man's eyes, but his voice was kind, happy, familiar. Eugene wondered how he could have ever thought him a murderer. “How are you?” he asked, his voice still shaky.
     The milk man pulled his wife closer, planted a kiss on the top of her head. “Doing fine! Little shook up over all this, but still chipper as a bird.” With this he chuckled, and Eugene nodded and left him.
     He waited till he was in his car, then bent his head over the steering wheel, defeated. He wondered if he was safe to go home—if anyone was safe. He wondered if he should find a hotel. He wondered if there were more bodies lying innocently in their houses, waiting to be found. He wondered if there were more blood notes left on his wall, more men in his hallways...
     He sucked in a sob, and let the fear pour out of him in tears. “God, help us!” he whispered. His hand made a fist around the steering wheel—so tight that his knuckles turned white. “God, help us before he kills us all!”

><><><><><><><><

      It was night. Chief Winters looked over at Eugene, frowned at him, then let his gaze roam back to the window.
     “Think he'll come?”
      The chief shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.” He'd stationed three men at each house on Cherry Street that had not yet been invaded. He'd chosen Eugene's house for himself, and now sat in a chair by the window with a cup of coffee in his hand.
      “Won't he see you there?”
      The chief emptied the coffee then walked to the sink and rinsed it. “I doubt it.”
      Eugene let out a weary breath, pacing the floor. “I can't stand this, chief! What if he jumps us? What if—”
      “Sit down, boy!” the chief yelled over top of him. He gave him a piercing look that was enough to intimidate a roaring lion. “I know what I'm doing, and I don't need you worrying and fussing like a wet hen!”
     “Sorry.” Eugene sank down into a chair, eyes going to the dark night outside his window. “I keep seeing that shadowy man...” he whispered. “I keep getting the feeling that, somehow, he'll get to me.”
     “Maybe,” the chief answered. “Maybe not.”

><><><><><><><

      He jerked his head back up, his vision blurred. How could he have fallen asleep when his very life was in danger? He glanced around for the chief. He was gone. He had probably gone to the bathroom, Eugene thought, standing. He was sure that if anything had happened, the other two officers would have made noise that would have awakened him. He was sure of it...
      He walked out into the hallway, then to the living room. His heart stopped. His steps faltered. One of the officers was lying on the couch...eyes open...hollow...dead...a knife in his chest...
      He backed away, slowly, until he found himself back in the kitchen. He stood there for a moment, numb, his head throbbing as he tried to reason what to do.
      A voice broke the silence, calm and quiet, “Look at me.”
      He turned around. He stared at the darkly clothed figure across the room, waiting, waiting, waiting...for death.
      “You're scared, aren't you?” The voice was again quiet, reserved, muffled, and unrecognizable.
      He glanced around the darkness, anywhere but at the stranger's eyes. Where was the chief? Was he dead, too—lying on the floor, maybe just at the feet of the assailant?
      His head was spinning; he couldn't see clear. The man was walking towards him...slowly, quietly, lethally...
      “So many secrets; so many lies. How can I rest, until all of you dies?” It was a song chanted under his breath—he kept repeating it softly as he drew near.
      Eugene backed up...he grabbed the picture on the wall...he hurled it at the stranger.
       The glass shattered on the man, but he kept walking, his feet crunching the glass on the kitchen floor. He stopped just a foot away from Eugene. He reached up...pulled the hood away from his face...
      Eugene gasped; he choked; his heart froze in his chest. It was a woman—with pale, friendly features, eyes brightly normal, lips smiling only slightly. It was Mrs. Longswim. Bertha. The milk man's loving wife...
      “You knew, didn't you?” she whispered. The smile crashed from her lips. “You knew, but you didn't care! Isn't that right? Better not to get involved, huh? Right, boy?” Blood trickled down one cheek where a piece of glass had hit her. She looked sinister...and yet, she looked like the friendly woman Eugene had known all his life. Same eyes; same hair; same creamy skin.
     “Mrs. Longswim...” he breathed the words, his lips trembling.
     “Tell me you knew!” she screamed.
     “Where's the chief?”
      She blinked at him, ignoring his question. “Garl thought he was smart. And he was.” She breathed an embittered laugh that made his blood run cold. “He thought I didn't know about him and Amy Jordon. But I found out!” She leaned closer to Eugene. “All of you knew, didn't you? How many years has it been like this? I thought I could trust you—all of you! But you're all liars!”
      Eugene sucked in shattered breath. “I didn't know anything about your husband's affairs, Bertha. And neither did anyone else!”
      “Yes they did!” she squealed. “They sat around on the phone and talked about it, gossiped and laughed about how I didn't know! But now I'm the one laughing,” she whispered. “And all of you are going to die!”
      She pulled a knife from the pocket of her dark coat. “You don't get away with lying to me—nobody does! I'm tired of being lied to, you hear—?”
      Eugene's fist came out, knocking the her back. She stumbled...he fled from the room...
     He could hear her laughing as he raced down the dark hallway. He fell over a dark form, landing on the floor. He looked down. It was the chief.
     “Oh, no...” he murmured. “No—” But then he felt the rise and fall of his chest, and he knew that he was still hanging on...
     “There you are!” she laughed at him.
     He looked up at her, at her frightening, wild eyes. He couldn't move—didn't have the will to move.
     “Did you think a little shove would keep me from getting to you?” Her shrill laughter died on this last note and her lips transformed into a silent scowl. She lifted her knife... She cursed as she watched him...
     Eugene gasped when a man appeared behind her. He grabbed her up into his arms, twisting the knife from her grasp. “Bertha, no!”
     She screamed and flailed at him, kicking, screaming, kicking, screaming...
     Eugene's body went limp; all he could hear was the sound of the milk man's voice, and the scream's of his murderous wife. 

><><><><><><><

      Eugene sat across from Garl at the police station. They both sat in quietness—too inundated in their grief to speak.
      Eugene studied Garl's face. His eyes were sunken, blood-shot, lifeless. The cheerfulness was zapped from his cheeks; his body was slumped in the chair, as if he had nothing left to live for.
      Eugene swallowed. What would it be like to know that your wife was a murderer—the woman you slept beside each night, the woman who cooked for you, talked with you, raised your children? How would it feel to know that she'd murdered all those people?
      Eugene's eyes misted over. He thought of Chief Winters and how close he had come to death. He thought of Carol, of how young she'd been. He thought of her grandmother, and the Grams. He thought of the nurse and the police.. All dead because of one woman's insanity. One woman's malicious madness...
      He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Garl looking down at him. He was smiling, only slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was sadly cheerful, “Come on, Eugene, buddy.” His smile widened, but the pain in his eyes increased. “Smile for me, won't you? Things can only get better from now on, can't they?”
     Eugene pushed the tears away from his eyes. Yes, he thought, things could only get better. He'd heal from this, and so would the milk man. They'd heal together.
     “Sure, Garl,” he answered quietly. The corners of his lips curved upward, though they quivered. “Things can only get better.”
     Then the two shared a smile that spoke of hurt and pain and anguish and tragedy—a smile that spoke of healing and forgiveness—a smile that spoke of hope.