“Her lipstick was smeared,” she says. “It was,” Betty chimes in with a solemn nod. She’s outside her sandwich shop, pushing a dustless broom. Nosy. “I saw it too.” Dolly, three more doors down at the bookstore, tips her empty watering can over dry flowers. Winston chuckles from his stool. “You’re in trouble.” It’s impossible to have a one-on-one conversation in this town. “Yeah, I know it was smeared,” I mutter to all of them.
