“You must be our new neighbors!” Mrs. Lowell waves across the picket fence and gushes. I take hold of my daughter’s hand and return her grin, but Mrs. Lowell’s countenance changes to a peculiar expression the moment she sees my husband. I promise you that right then. We have a family home at last. My past is a very long time ago. And I will stop at nothing to maintain it that way.

I used to clean other people’s homes, so it still amazes me that this is my own. The large yard where my children can play, the peaceful cul-de-sac, and the quaint kitchen. In order to provide our children with the life they deserve, my spouse and I saved for years.

We get the opportunity to become friends when our new neighbor, Mrs. Lowell, asks us over for supper, despite my apprehensions about her. Her maid, with her hair pulled back in a tight bun and dressed in a white apron, opens the door. I have firsthand experience of what it’s like to be in her position. But I get chills from her icy gaze.

There are other oddities on our street besides the maid of the Lowells. A mysterious figure is undoubtedly observing us. Late at night, my husband leaves the house. And the words of a woman who lives across the street make me shudder: Watch out for your neighbors.