There Goes The Neighborhood

Amy Wimmer Schwarb: LARGO — Two years ago, Bob and Connie Cain bought a two-bedroom, two-bath house in the suburbs. They added a porch swing and painted it a pleasing shade of green, with cream trim.

They are retired government employees from Ohio who love God and Harleys. The house is a three-minute drive from the beach. The couple and the house made a perfect pair.

The neighborhood seemed nice enough. Two doors down, Don and Claire Yoder had lived in their home for 30 years and seemed to get along with everyone. Across the street, Pat Ross was in her 70s and recuperating from cancer, yet still mowed her own lawn and trimmed her own trees. Next door, a renter named Michael Glick maintained an immaculate lawn; his flower beds brimmed with voluptuous tropical plants.

Shortly after moving in, Bob Cain saw Glick walking down the street. “Hi,” he called out, stepping to the end of his driveway. “My name’s Bob.”

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