Marcus didn't know everything she believed.
But he'd noticed how differently she spoke to certain neighbors.
"I think she made assumptions about me before she knew anything," he answered.
Grace nodded slowly.
Then asked whether he was documenting the harassment.
He smiled.
"Every bit of it."
She looked relieved.
"Good."
Then she reached across the counter and took his hand.
"Don't let her make you somebody you aren't."
Marcus frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"Don't let her anger become yours. You can stand up for yourself without letting the fight swallow your life."
He looked toward the papers.
For a moment, he felt an unexpected wave of exhaustion.
He'd spent months trying to prove that he was following rules he already understood.
His mother squeezed his hand.
"You worked too hard for this house to spend every evening feeling unwelcome in it."
Marcus nodded.
"I know, Mom."
She stood.
"Now put those letters away and help me with dinner."
For the first time that day, he laughed.
The house next door had been vacant for almost eight months when Marcus first met its new owner.
It was a handsome single-story property with cream-colored horizontal siding, white-framed windows, a small covered porch, and a fenced backyard. The previous owner, an elderly woman named Margaret Sullivan, had moved to assisted living near her sister in Virginia.
Margaret's family kept the house maintained while deciding what to do with it.
Eventually, the property transferred to her nephew through a family arrangement.
That nephew was Daniel Mercer.
Daniel was forty-five, tall and broad-shouldered, with short brown hair graying at the temples and the quiet, observant manner of someone accustomed to assessing situations before speaking.
He had spent nearly nineteen years in federal law enforcement.
His current work involved financial investigations, including allegations connected to the misuse of public funds and complex fraud schemes.
But when Marcus first encountered him, he knew none of that.
He simply saw a man unloading boxes from a rented truck.
Daniel was struggling to carry a heavy wooden bookshelf through the front door.
Marcus had just returned from work.
He watched for a moment.
Then walked across the driveway.
"Need a hand?"
Daniel looked up.
For a second, he seemed surprised.
Then smiled.
"I wouldn't say no."
Marcus helped him maneuver the bookshelf through the doorway.
Inside, the house smelled of fresh paint and cardboard.
Several boxes were stacked near the living-room wall.
Daniel thanked him.
Then introduced himself.
"Daniel Mercer."
"Marcus Bennett. I live next door."
They shook hands.
For a few minutes, they talked about the neighborhood.