Author's Note: I can't believe this is something that I have to write but because of some absolute batshit claims and threats I have received, I feel as though I need to make it abundantly clear that, despite not using any personal information or anything resembling anyone I know, this is short story FICTION. This is not based on anyone, which should be pretty obvious. If you know someone who has the same model car, please do not be alarmed as 299,824 of these cars were sold (source: https://www.liveabout.com/1969-ford-mustang-2464608.) If you too, have French windows or doors in your house, need not worry, as that is an extremely fucking common thing and this is not a threat describing your home. If the date mentioned in this story has any relevance to you, congratulations, theres only 365 days to choose from and things happen every day.If you have any further concerns, please don't hesitate to leave me the fuck alone.

The Marcus house was a perfect image of suburbia living. It was nestled in the midst of a quaint middle class neighborhood on the outskirts of Des Moines, Iowa, with a white picket fence, a neatly trimmed front yard, and a vintage minty 1966 mustang parked perpetually as an idol in their garage. The car was not to be driven ever, it was merely Bryan's trophy of success and class for the neighbors to admire and for him to polish occasionally. Newly wed, Sophie and Bryan Marcus had committed to a life of of tradition and family.

Their living room was their most adorned space. It sports spotless cherrywood floors, refurbished a polished with a shiny luster, an elegant art deco coffee table composed of sandalwood and glass, and bookshelves lined with untouched but never dust covered rows of classic novels ranging from Pride and Prejudice to Moby Dick. Large french windows let in copious amounts of natural light that looked out onto their quiet street, Dove Street. The Marcus' held several social gatherings in their house, all centered around their lovely living room. Bryan often had the neighborhood husbands over on Sunday to watch football, and the wives of the neighborhood would gather in the less glamorous but equally organized kitchen and gossip about neighborly disputes and their children.

On the morning of September 19th, 1989, peculiar things began to happen on Dove Street. The first was that Cameron Flynn, the next door neighbor to the Marcus' was reported missing by her husband, Tom. He had awoken that Tuesday morning to an empty bed, and assumed that his wife had gotten up early to make his breakfast. However, after he showered and came into the kitchen, he did not find her. Concerned, he called the police and they came to fulfill a missing person's report. Their investigation concluded that Mrs. Flynn had packed up half of her closet in an old leather suitcase, and left. Her purse and wallet were left behind, but all the money from her wallet was gone. The arriving officers concluded that she had left on her own free will, which prompted two more investigations. Where is she, and why did she leave?

Mr. Flynn was more than happy to swear on a holy gospel that he never laid a hand on his wife, that he was a good husband and that they were very happy. He pushed that she might have been kidnapped, but the missing money and clothes indicated it was her choice. Mr. Flynn suggested they reach out to the Marcus' next door. Cameron and Sophie were very close, perhaps she knew something. That Tuesday morning, they knocked on the door twice to the Marcus household, but there was no reply. Mr. Flynn noted it was strange that there was no answer, as the old tan Buick was parked out front. The Buick was Tom's car that he took to work, and if it was out front, both of the Marcus' were surely home.

The officers assured Mr. Flynn that they'd do everything they could to help locate Mrs. Flynn, but since the evidence indicated that she left instead of any violent action, it was not their priority.

Four days passed with no further evidence. Mr. Flynn fretted for his dear wife's safety. Cameron had always had a bit of an independent streak. She often spoke her mind, and enjoyed doing things on her own, but her absence was so unexpected and drawn out that he feared she may have gotten herself killed trying something bold and stupid in the middle of the night. He was so caught up in his wife's disappearance, he hardly noticed the untouched Buick for three days. On the fourth day, he banged on the Marcus door, demanding to speak with Sophie. She had been absent and quiet ever since Cameron went missing and he began to suspect her of knowing something.

On the fifth day, Mr. Flynn used the key that their neighbors had given them to break in and check on them. He walked through the front door, and immediately to the left was the immaculate living room. In the middle of the living room, the rotting corpse of Bryan Marcus sat in a pool of dried blood. The tasteful coffee table was shattered, and a shard of glass from it was lodged into Mr. Marcus' throat. Horrified, Mr. Flynn called the police again, and they returned with a fresh air of urgency. Sophie was nowhere to be found. They checked to see if any of her belongings had been tampered with, but found everything in order. Her wallet and purse was found untouched, still filled with a few small bills.

Two missing women. One dead man. One woman left by choice, one's status unknown. Both possible suspects, both possible victims. One bewildered husband.

As the police swept the house for evidence, Mr. Flynn stood on his porch and watched anxiously. They opened the garage door from the inside, and Mr. Flynn felt a pit in his stomach. The minty colored Mustang was gone.