Jim Bernardi was a really complex man. And I mean, he was. To his paper boy, he seemed just another guy living in the suburbia. A small house, with a wooden fence and a guard dog, a work that sometimes kept him away from his family, going to the Mass every Sunday, that was all Mr. Bernardi.

About his family, apart from the aforementioned dog, he had only a beloved wife, who loved dearly as a part of his life. And so, he loved her quirks, treasured walking the dog in the park with her, whispered her love to her every time he could and never got bored of the daily routine of the classic, suburbian family.

In fact, only a few thing were missing from their perfect life. Life never gave them children. Carol apparently couldn’t children. She was not talkative about the thing. In fact, she wasn’t talkative at all. Once Jim met a raven-haired stranger trying to ask for a bus ticket with grunts and gestures, and after a while, they were married.

Still, no suprise when Jim was found dead, shot in his own home.