The earliest entry was from three weeks earlier.
Another had been added eleven days before.
A third appeared the previous weekend.
I shook my head.
“I haven't had police contact at this house.”
Helena nodded.
“I know.”
I read the descriptions.
Unverified resident access.
Potential unauthorized visitor.
Property occupancy concern.
The phrases were vague.
But the effect was clear.
Someone had created a record suggesting that the person regularly seen at my home might not belong there.
I looked toward Helena.
“Who entered these?”
She shook her head.
“We'll need the original logs.”
I stared at the screen.
For months, I'd been living quietly in Silver Crest Estates.
I waved to neighbors.
Collected mail.
Worked.
Visited my parents.
And occasionally sat outside reading when the weather was pleasant.
I hadn't been accused of a crime.
Hadn't argued with neighborhood security.
Hadn't had a single confrontation that would explain repeated concerns about my right to occupy the house.
Yet somebody had been documenting me as a suspicious presence.
I took a breath.
“Preserve the records.”
Helena nodded.
“Already requested.”
Then I looked directly at her.
“And Helena?”
“Yes?”
“I don't want anybody deciding this is just a public-relations problem because the person involved happens to be the chief.”
Her expression hardened.
“Neither do I.”
I nodded.
For several seconds, we sat quietly.
Then the doorbell rang.
My parents had arrived.
And the moment my mother saw me, the police chief disappeared again.
I was simply her daughter.
Mom crossed the living room without speaking.
Then she wrapped both arms around me.
I felt her shaking.
For a moment, I tried to reassure her.
But the words wouldn't come.
She held me tighter.
My father stood near the doorway, staring toward the patio.
His jaw was clenched.
I'd seen him angry before.
When contractors tried to cheat elderly neighbors.
When someone made a cruel remark about my mother's job.
When my brother was treated unfairly at school.
But I'd never seen him look quite like that.
He walked toward me.
Then stopped.
“Did he really do it?”
I nodded.
Dad looked toward the window again.
For several seconds, he said nothing.