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Mr. and Mrs. Pritt have a lovely bungalow in Meadow Park, a little ways from the river in a quaint, unassuming suburb. Plenty of driveways, green lawns, and upright mailboxes at the front of every house.
It’s the perfect place to lie low.
Obviously, there’s no guarantee Melissa’s been here, but the shiny new Ford F150 by the curb might suggest the Pritts have come into an unexpectedly large amount of money. Whereoh where could it have come from, I wonder?
“This is such a lovely surprise,” Mrs. Pritt says as she pours me a cup of tea and sets a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies between us. “It’s so exciting to finally meet one of my daughter’s colleagues. Melly shouldn’t be much longer. I ran out of butter, so she volunteered to go to the store for me. Are you sure you don’t want me to give her a call?”
“Oh, that’s alright,” I say sweetly. “No need to rush her. I was actually just asking your husband about that fishing trophy I saw over your mantle.”
Mr. Pritt laughs heartily. “I used to be obsessed with fishing tourneys. It was no easy feat, I tell you. That one nearly dragged me right off the boat! Do you know much about fishing, Ms. Harper?”
“Unfortunately, no,” I say with an easy laugh. “But my father was into fly fishing back in the day. He tried to teach me, but it didn’t really take. I was much more into ballet.”
“Ah, nothing wrong with that. My wife likes to tell me it’s an old man’s hobby, anyway.”
I have to admit I feel a little bad for dragging Mr. and Mrs. Pritt into their daughter’s mess. I’m pretty good at reading people, and the two of them are as lovely as they come. Mrs. Pritt is the kind of woman who’s super into knitting. I saw on my way in that she has a whole pile of hand-knitted plushies piled high in a clear bag, the label on front reading:Donate to Children’s Hospital.
Mr. Pritt, similarly, appears to be a beloved member of the local community. There were more than just fishing tourney trophies out there, but small plaques and framed pictures thanking him for his years working as a volunteer firefighter and community outreach leader.
It’s baffling, the more I think about it. How did these two saints raise a devil as their daughter?
Mrs. Pritt takes a seat beside me, giving my forearm a friendly little pat. She’s dressed in abright yellow dress and a lovely pastel cardigan. “So, tell me, what brings you all the way out here?”
“I’m on my way up to see some family. Melly said I was welcome to stop by and say hello.”
“Of course! I’m sure she’ll be so excited. We’d love to hear all about your work misadventures. Well, anything that’s not classified.”
“Or else I’d have to kill you,” I joke lightly. They laugh with me as a pair of keys jingle in the front door.
“Mom! Dad! I’m home.”
“We’re in here, sweetheart,” Mrs. Pritt calls out.
“I had to get you unsalted butter,” Melissa says as she enters the kitchen, too preoccupied with rummaging through her grocery bag to notice me right away. “But at least it was on sale, so you can—”
She looks up.
Our eyes lock.
And then she drops everything and gasps, clasping a hand over her mouth in pure horror.
“Surprise!” I say in a friendly, sing-song voice. “Excited to see me?”
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she seethes.
Mrs. Pritt gawks. “Melly! Watch your language in front of our guest!”
“Get out! Get the hell out!”
Her father frowns steeply. “Melly? What’s gotten into you?”
“You two need to leave,” she tells her parents. “Just go and—”
I nod at someone outside through the house’s street-facing windows. In an instant, three red dots magically appear on their clothes. One over Melissa’s chest, and two between her parents’ eyes. They all scream before promptly falling into gut wrenching silence.
“Oh my God,” Mrs. Pritt whimpers. “Oh my God, oh my God!”
