I realized that I started writing about this experience without finishing it. I suppose some stories need a lifetime to tell. Little by little, over the quiet, almost traceless passage of time.
The unbelievable thing about living in the house of a murder case is that — it turned out we knew the woman who was murdered in the house that we moved into.
When the murder case first happened, I was a junior. I knew that it was a big case but that was all I knew. I remember glancing out the window of the school bus and being told that the police were looking for the head. I was probably too scared to even think about the idea of murder, not to mention that it happened in my beloved neighborhood.
And so, it was only after many years, (and after we moved into the house of the murder case, in my teenage years,) that we realized it was the manager of a dim sum restaurant who was murdered. My mom and I went to that same restaurant every single day during my kindergarten years. At that time, my little brother was still a baby, and he was so cute and charming that all the ladies had to stop and play with him. The manager was among those warm, friendly ladies.
In the most cliche kind of way, the whole case was a puzzle that slowly came together and revealed itself. After my mom’s dream, we found…
