My neighbors’ house burned down, and the community raised thousands for the “devastated” young couple. But I, a retired math teacher, knew they were lying. When the insurance investigator came to my door, they followed him in. “Don’t bother Eleanor,” the husband said with a smirk. “She’s old. She was probably asleep through the whole thing.”

The entire neighborhood was wrapped in a suffocating blanket of sympathy. After the “electrical fire” had consumed the home of the charming young couple, Tom and Sarah, our quiet suburban street had transformed into a hub of communal grief. Casseroles were delivered, clothes were donated, and an online fundraising page was climbing towards an astonishing sum. On the local news, Tom and Sarah wept convincingly, recounting the tragic loss of every sentimental belonging, every piece of their shared history.