“She tells everybody you misunderstood.”
“She says she found them first.”
“She says they were already there.”
“She says you threatened her.”
“She says whatever she needs.”
Daniel looked toward Lorraine.
The HOA president had now removed her phone.
She photographed the bushes.
Once.
Twice.
Then crouched lower and adjusted one of the packets so it could be partially seen beneath the leaves.
Daniel felt sick.
Elena said, “Let her finish creating the story.”
Daniel looked at her.
“Why?”
“So we can preserve the part where she creates it.”
That sentence stopped him.
Outside, Lorraine stood.
Brushed dirt from her gloves.
Then glanced toward the house.
Daniel moved farther from the window.
Elena pulled out her phone and began recording through a narrow angle beside the curtain.
Lorraine walked several steps away.
Stopped.
Looked back at the garden.
Then opened the HOA tote again.
She removed a clipboard.
Daniel closed his eyes.
“Of course she has a clipboard.”
Elena almost smiled.
Lorraine wrote something.
Then took another photograph.
Daniel's anger became colder.
Less explosive.
More focused.
He had spent nearly a year trying to understand why Lorraine seemed incapable of leaving him alone.
Now he understood something worse.
She was not merely trying to control him.
She was trying to construct a version of him.
The version she wanted other people to believe.
And this morning, she had decided evidence itself could be manufactured.
Lorraine reached for her phone.
Elena slipped hers away.
“Stay inside.”
Daniel looked at her.
“You're going out?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“I am the detective.”
Daniel stared.
“Fair.”
Elena adjusted the light jacket covering her holstered weapon and badge.
Then opened the patio door.
Lorraine spun.
Her clipboard nearly fell.
Elena stepped onto the patio.
“Ma'am.”
Lorraine stared.
Daniel could see the calculations beginning behind her sunglasses.
Elena raised her badge.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Lorraine's mouth opened.
Then closed.
Daniel remained behind the window.
For the first time in eleven months, Lorraine Whitaker had absolutely nothing to say.
Daniel had met Lorraine three days after buying the house.
Fairmont Ridge looked harmless when he first visited.
That was part of its appeal.
Mature oak trees shaded broad sidewalks. Houses sat far enough apart for privacy but close enough that neighbors waved when they collected mail. The community had a pool, tennis courts, a clubhouse, two playgrounds, and landscaping so aggressively maintained that Daniel suspected individual blades of grass probably had regulations.
He had spent the previous seven years in a downtown condominium.
He was tired of elevators.
Tired of hearing strangers argue through walls.
Tired of paying for parking.
He wanted a yard.
A garage.
A kitchen bigger than a closet.
He found a four-bedroom house at the end of Hawthorne Lane.
Brick front.
White columns.
Deep backyard.
Raised garden beds installed by the previous owner.
Daniel loved it.
He worked as a regional project director for a medical-equipment company and traveled often. The house represented stability, something that had been missing through most of his thirties.
He closed in March.
Lorraine arrived on Friday afternoon.
Daniel had been assembling shelves in the garage when a white crossover pulled into his driveway.
A woman stepped out carrying a leather folder.
Pink blazer.
Pearls.
Blonde bob.
Oversized sunglasses.
Daniel remembered thinking she looked like someone arriving to inspect a yacht.
She walked directly into the garage.
No greeting from the driveway.
No question.
Just entry.
“Mr. Brooks?”
Daniel turned.
“Yes?”
She smiled.
“Lorraine Whitaker. HOA president.”