Page 196 of Yearn

She had a cigarette between her fingers and was taking long, elegant drags that sent smoke curling into the night air. I'd lived next to her for several years and never once seen her smoke.

Never even smelled it.

But that wasn't what made me stare.

It was the way she sat.

Loose.

Relaxed.

Sated.

Her housecoat was slightly open at the collar, and her thick black hair—usually pinned up in those damn rollers—hung loose around her shoulders, messy and wild.

Her lipstick was smudged at the corner of her mouth as she smiled.

She looked like a woman who'd been thoroughly, completely,satisfyinglyfucked.

Oh shit. What were you doing, Mrs. Patterson?

With Scott being dragged away in handcuffs twenty feet from her porch, she took another drag of her cigarette, and our eyes met across the darkness.

Mrs. Patterson didn't look away, and there was no judgement on her face.

She just made that smile even wider.

Then she lifted her cigarette in a small salute—to me?

To the police cars?

To the chaos?

I didn’t know. . .

And then she took another deep drag.

The smoke drifted up into the night, and in the red and blue lights.

I had no idea what had happened in Mrs. Patterson's house tonight.

But something had.

And as Scott was shoved into the back of the police car—still crying, still protesting, still not understanding how completely he'd lost—Mrs. Patterson took one more drag, stubbed out her cigarette, and went inside.

Her porch light clicked off.

Whatever she'd witnessed, whatever she knew, she'd taken it with her into the dark.

And somehow, I knew she'd never speak of it.

Some secrets, apparently, were too delicious to share.

Even for the neighborhood's most dedicated busybody.

The police cars finally pulled away, taking him with them. The neighbors gradually dispersed, though I could still see curtains twitching, could feel their eyes and their questions.

Inside, Spencer and his team were still here, talking in low voices near the kitchen.