Her handbag sat inside on a workbench.
Her wallet was in it.
She pointed.
“My ID is in the garage.”
The officer’s posture stiffened immediately.
“Don't move.”
Nadia stopped.
“You asked me for identification.”
“I said don't move.”
She lowered her hand.
“All right.”
He approached farther onto the lawn.
Nadia noticed his nameplate.
ADAMS.
Officer Grant Adams.
She also noticed the red indicator on his body camera.
Active.
Good.
“Officer Adams,” she said calmly, “if I’m suspected of trespassing, I’m happy to verify ownership. My wallet is inside the garage. You can stand here while I retrieve it.”
Adams looked toward the garage.
Boxes.
Tools.
A folded ladder.
Nothing visibly threatening.
Then back toward Nadia.
“What were you doing when I arrived?”
“Cleaning my yard.”
“With that hose?”
Nadia looked at the hose lying across the grass.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
This time she did smile.
“Because it’s a garden hose.”
Adams’s face tightened.
Nadia saw it.
The smile had been a mistake.
Not because she had done anything wrong.
Because he interpreted amusement as challenge.
She knew the type.
Her job introduced her to them constantly.
People who could tolerate disagreement.
Could tolerate confusion.
Could tolerate inconvenience.
But not perceived disrespect.
Adams pointed toward the sidewalk again.
“Come down here.”
Nadia’s smile disappeared.
“Am I being detained?”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The attitude.”
Nadia stared at him.
“I asked a legal question.”
“You're making this harder than it needs to be.”
She almost closed her eyes.
That sentence.
Always that sentence.
A phrase used when somebody wanted cooperation without explanation.
Nadia folded her arms loosely.
“Officer, I’m standing in my front yard.”
“You claim it's your yard.”
“The property records will confirm that.”
“We'll get there.”
“Then what exactly do you need me to do right now?”
Adams looked toward the porch.
“Did you enter the house?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Through the front door.”
“Key?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
Nadia pointed toward her pocket.
Adams’s hand moved toward his belt.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
She lifted both hands slightly.
“My key is in my pocket.”
“Don't reach.”
“I wasn't.”
“Good.”
More curtains moved.
Two houses down, an older woman stepped onto her porch.
She held a phone vertically.
Recording.
Nadia noticed.
Adams noticed too.
His posture became more rigid.
Performance had entered the scene.
Nadia disliked that.
Cameras often made good officers more careful.
They made insecure officers more theatrical.
Adams looked toward the neighbor.
“Ma’am, stay back.”
The woman remained on her porch.
“I am back.”
Nadia heard another door open.
Then another.