“That’s where she lived,” said your grandad.
You stared at the house. In the whole neighbourhood, only this one was pink.
“Did she really kill her family?” you asked.
He took the cigarette out of his mouth, nodded.
You carried on walking.
“Why did she do it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Sometimes people do crazy things.”
“How did she kill them?”
“Poison. It was a long time ago, though.”
Still, someone who had called themselves a mother and a wife had become a murderer.
And now her house was pink, and a new family – another mother – was living there.
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