I should have made her change.
Not because my job was secret.
It wasn't.
But I did not advertise it.
Fugitives have families.
Criminal organizations have memories.
Most days I was simply Daniel Brooks, husband, father, neighbor.
That morning I especially wanted to be only those things.
Lily held up two bolts.
“Dad.”
“Yeah?”
“These are different.”
I looked down from the ladder.
“One’s three-eighths.”
She stared.
“What does that mean?”
“That whoever packed the hardware hates fathers.”
She smiled.
It was the first real smile I had seen from her in two days.
Rebecca’s bloodwork had been difficult that week.
Lily understood more than we wanted her to.
Children always do.
She handed me the correct bolt.
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“You said twenty minutes twenty minutes ago.”
“That is how home improvement works.”
She rolled her eyes.
Then we heard an electric motor.
A white golf cart turned onto our driveway.
Three women sat inside wearing tennis visors.
A man walked beside them holding a clipboard.
The driver was Gloria Whitcomb.
I did not know that yet.
All I knew was that she looked at our porch swing like she had discovered a meth laboratory.
She stopped the cart directly behind my truck.
Blocking it.
Then climbed out.
White slacks.
Pale blue blouse.
Pearls.
Hair styled perfectly despite Georgia humidity.
She looked around our property before acknowledging me.
“You’re the renters.”
It was not a question.
I climbed down.
“Good morning.”
Her gaze moved toward Lily.
Then the tools.
Then the swing.
“You are installing an exterior fixture.”
“It’s a porch swing.”
“It is visible from the street.”
I waited.
Nothing else came.
“Most porches are.”
The man with the clipboard accidentally chuckled.
Gloria turned her head.
His smile disappeared.
One of the visor women whispered something.
Gloria approached the steps.
“I am Gloria Whitcomb, president of the Pine Hollow Estates Homeowners Association.”
“Daniel Brooks.”
“I know.”
That bothered me slightly.
We had not met anyone.
Gloria continued.
“We received reports regarding several violations at this residence.”
“We moved in Monday.”
“Rules apply immediately.”
“Okay.”
She looked at her clipboard.
“Trash receptacle visible beyond permitted collection period.”
“Collection was forty minutes ago.”
“Vehicle improperly parked.”
I looked at my pickup.
Four tires inside our driveway.
Registration valid.
No obstruction.
“How?”
“Commercial-style vehicle.”
“It’s a Ford F-150.”
“Association standards permit passenger vehicles.”
“It is a passenger vehicle.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Grass exceeding approved height.”
I looked at the lawn.
Mowed the afternoon before.
“By what measurement?”
“Young man—”
I was forty-two.
“I’m asking a question.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Children’s recreational items visible from street.”
I looked around.
Lily looked around too.
Then we both saw it.
An unopened box of blue sidewalk chalk near her sneaker.
I almost laughed.
Gloria did not.
“The board maintains visual standards.”