LIARS

The Petersons' home wasn't known for chaos. It stood firm, pristine, with its sharp white picket fence and orderly garden—the kind of house that whispered perfection. But that night, perfection shattered. The dining room was the epicenter of destruction. Chairs overturned, the polished oak table scratched as if clawed by an unseen hand. The room's centerpiece—a delicate porcelain vase passed down generations—lay in shards, its contents spilled across the floor. But the most unsettling detail? The words. "LIARS," painted in bold red letters, stretched across the wall above the hearth. The paint dripped slowly, mimicking blood, adding a macabre weight to the scene. Yet, nothing was stolen. The jewelry, the cash, even the expensive electronics remained untouched. It wasn't theft. It was a statement. As the Petersons stared at their violated home, the police shuffled around, whispering theories and taking notes. But the truth hung heavy in the air. This wasn't random. This was personal. And just before the last officer left, Mrs. Peterson glanced at the wall again, her voice trembling as she said to no one in particular, "This... feels like a warning." 

It had been barely a day since Ivy began settling into the slow, almost stifling rhythm of the small town. She'd started reacquainting herself with the sleepy afternoons, the humid air, and the constant sound of cicadas. But whatever fragile normalcy she had begun to find was shattered by the incident at the Petersons' house. The news traveled fast—faster than the smoke from the chimneys on winter mornings. In a town this small, even a whisper could shake its very core. And this wasn't just a whisper. The townsfolk didn't need an excuse to speculate, and by the time the first beams of morning sunlight touched the cobblestone streets, the entire town was abuzz. 

The next morning, the small-town café buzzed with hushed conversations. Word about the break-in had spread like wildfire. "Nothing stolen?" one voice murmured. "Just the word 'LIARS'? What does that even mean?" another added, sipping their coffee as if the caffeine could soothe their nerves. Ivy sat in her usual corner, nursing her tea while pretending to scroll through her phone. She wasn't here for breakfast; she was here to listen. Across the café, Sophie slid into the seat opposite Ivy, carrying a croissant and a coffee she barely touched. "You've heard, right? About the Petersons?" Ivy nodded, her voice even. "It's all anyone's talking about. Did you hear anything specific?" Sophie leaned in, lowering her voice. "Just what everyone's saying—that it wasn't a robbery. Someone wanted to send a message." "And the Petersons? How are they reacting?" "Mrs. Peterson's been crying nonstop. Mr. Peterson's furious. But honestly, Ivy, they've always had skeletons in their closet. Wouldn't surprise me if this is connected to one of their shady deals." Ivy raised an eyebrow, masking her intrigue with mild disinterest. "Everyone in this town has skeletons, Sophie." 

Later that day, Ivy found herself at Michael's garage. The space smelled of oil and old leather, and the walls were lined with tools, each meticulously arranged. Michael looked up from under the hood of a car, wiping his hands on a rag. "You're here early," he remarked, his voice carrying a hint of surprise. "Thought I'd stop by," Ivy said casually, leaning against the garage door. "Heard you're working on the Peterson case." Michael chuckled dryly. "Everyone's working on the Peterson case. Small towns don't get excitement like this often." "They think it's random?" "Some do," Michael admitted, setting the rag aside. "But I don't buy it. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing. The Petersons aren't exactly saints, Ivy. They've burned more bridges than they can count. Someone finally decided to light the match." "And what do you think?" Michael paused, leaning against the car. "They weren't home when it happened. That's deliberate. Someone wanted them to walk in and see it. Mrs. Peterson... she stared at the writing on the wall for too long. Like it meant something to her. But she didn't say anything about it." Ivy frowned. "If it did, she's keeping quiet." Michael shrugged. "Could be guilt, could be fear. Either way, nothing solid to go on yet." They continued talking, but the details remained frustratingly vague. The Petersons had their secrets, and whoever did this knew how to hit where it hurt most. As the light outside began to dim, Ivy glanced at the time and stood up. "It's late. I should head back." Michael nodded, returning to his work. "Stay safe. Let me know if you hear anything." 

The walk home was short, the cool evening air brushing against her skin. Ivy's thoughts wandered, replaying the fragments of conversation. What did Mrs. Peterson see in that word? Her phone buzzed, pulling her out of her reverie. She glanced at the screen. It was a text from an unknown number. "You can't escape the past." She stopped in her tracks, the words on the screen sinking into her mind. The street around her was silent, almost too quiet. Her heartbeat quickened, but she quickly locked her phone and resumed her pace, forcing herself to appear calm. The message lingered, like a shadow trailing her home.

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