The Lingerie Thief Next Door - Chapter 10: Chapter 10

The accusations against Leonard for molesting the little girl were never proven, but that didn't stop the neighborhood from whispering. Overnight, we became pariahs—people crossed the street to avoid us.
Even Benny felt it. One afternoon, he came home from kindergarten, his little face crumpled. "Mommy, nobody wants to play with me anymore."
Leonard swore he'd been framed—that he'd only stepped in to help the girl when some creep was harassing her, only to get slapped with this disgusting lie. "People will turn on you in a heartbeat," he muttered, shaking his head.
The air in our house grew thick with tension.
I couldn't take it. I needed to go to the police—clear his name, clear our name.
But before I could reach the door, both my husband and Leonard grabbed my arms.
I looked down at their hands, let out a hollow laugh, then burst into tears. I never made it outside.
If you're innocent, why run from the truth?
All their excuses—"no cameras," "they've got witnesses"—meant nothing. It just sounded like guilt talking.
The days dragged on until I finally cracked. I gave my husband an ultimatum: either we went to the cops, Leonard went back to his hometown, or I filed for divorce.
In the end, Leonard chose to leave.
The house fell silent.
But the look my husband gave me? That stung worse than the gossip. Like I'd betrayed him. Like I'd abandoned his father when he needed us most.
And I was just as crushed—how could he not see how twisted this was?
We moved forward, but everything felt off-balance.
Then, a month later, the couple showed up at our doorstep unannounced.
The woman smiled nervously. I cut her off before she could speak. "Leonard's gone. If you're here to start trouble again, I'm calling the police."
The man stepped forward, holding out a bag of fruit. "We came to apologize," he said quietly. "We got it wrong."
Confused, I let them in.
The story spilled out in a rush.
Their daughter often cut through a deserted alley on her way home—one lined with empty, crumbling houses. That day, a man in black had grabbed her, yanking her toward the shadows. Leonard had scared him off, then stayed with her until she calmed down.
But the creep had left bruises on her arms. Terrified of getting in trouble for walking alone, the girl and her friend made up a lie—Leonard was the one who hurt her.
And because one of her classmates had seen Leonard near our neighborhood, her parents had stormed straight to our door.
As the rumors spread, guilt gnawed at the girls until they finally confessed.
"We were angry. We wanted justice," the woman admitted, shamefaced. "But we also worried about her reputation. We handled this all wrong. We're so sorry."
Their regret seemed real.
I called my husband, who raced home. After hearing everything, he insisted they apologize to Leonard directly—and set the record straight with the neighbors.
They agreed without hesitation.
Later, cheeks burning, I apologized to my husband.
He ruffled my hair. "Family means trusting each other," he said softly.
I wanted to melt into the floor.
The next day, we took off work and drove to Leonard's hometown, hoping to bring him and Margaret back with us.
But Leonard refused. The countryside suited him better.
Still, he offered, "If you ever need help with Benny, send him to us. We'll take good care of him."