Then she said, “I testified yesterday.”
I knew what she meant.
Internal affairs.
“How’d it go?”
“I told them everything.”
She rubbed the cardboard sleeve around her cup.
“I don’t think he’ll ever speak to me again.”
I didn’t tell her that was probably a good thing. She already knew.
I moved back into the house almost three weeks after the morning in the driveway.
The federal technicians removed the relay, the wiring, and two small storage devices buried behind drywall in the laundry room.
I replaced the damaged cabinets instead of repairing them.
The first weekend I was home, I finally finished cleaning the gutters.
Patricia’s house stood empty across the street. Her attorney had advised her to stay with family while the case moved through court.
The HOA appointed an interim president.
At my first meeting, nobody mentioned trash cans.
A few neighbors apologized.
Others avoided me.
One woman admitted that Patricia had posted my picture in the neighborhood group before the deputies even arrived. The post was deleted once people realized something had gone wrong.
I asked her what Patricia had written.
She hesitated before telling me.
“Suspicious person at vacant property.”
I almost laughed.
Three days after closing, with my name on the deed, my furniture in the rooms, and my dishes in the cabinets, I had still been described as a suspicious person at somebody else’s house.
I didn’t ask for a screenshot.
I didn’t need one.
Months later, after Daniel entered a plea and Cole’s case moved toward trial, the neighborhood became boring again.
I learned who walked their dog before sunrise, whose teenager played drums in the garage, and which family ordered pizza every Friday night.
Normal things.
That turned out to be what I wanted from the place more than anything.
One evening, I was bringing the recycling bin back from the curb when Brooks pulled up in an unmarked county vehicle.
She was working investigations now.
She handed me a padded envelope that had been released from evidence.
Inside was the black federal access card Cole had taken from my wallet that morning.
I turned it over in my hand.
A small evidence sticker was still stuck to the back.
Brooks smiled.
“Figured you’d want that.”
“I have a replacement.”
“I know.”
I looked across the street at the empty Keller house.
Then back at mine.
The garage door was open. A lamp was on in the front room. Through the window, I could see the stack of mail I had left on the table and the half-dead plant I kept forgetting to water.
Nothing about it looked remarkable.
That was the point.
I peeled the evidence sticker from the card, dropped the card into the kitchen drawer, and went back outside to finish bringing in the recycling before it started raining.
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