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Her husband’s almost home. He’ll catch her this time.
There isn’t a scrap of curtain, not a blade of blind, in number 212—the
rust-red townhome that once housed the newlywed Motts, until recently, until
they un-wed. I never met either Mott, but occasionally I check in online: his
LinkedIn profile, her Facebook page. Their wedding registry lives on at
Macy’s. I could still buy them flatware.
As I was saying: not even a window dressing. So number 212 gazes
blankly across the street, ruddy and raw, and I gaze right back, watching the
mistress of the manor lead her contractor into the guest bedroom. What is it
about that house? It’s where love goes to die.

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