The Brennan followed without a word. Mrs. Turner picked up her hose and disappeared into her garage. One by one, the neighbors who had watched Diane scream watched her spray a garden hose at a stranger. Watched her read his license plate aloud like a crime report. They retreated into their homes and closed their doors behind them.
Nobody wanted to be standing next to Diane Hartley right now. Greg Wells didn't move. He stayed in his doorway across the street. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't gloating.
He just stood there with his arms crossed and gave one slow, quiet nod. He'd known. Not that Blake was the police chief. He hadn't known that. But he'd known that the man unloading boxes in the driveway across the street was just a man moving into his house.
And that had been enough. Diane stood alone on the driveway. Her face had gone white. Whiter than her tennis outfit, whiter than her sneakers, whiter than the knuckles on her hands that were now shaking at her sides. She looked at the garden hose lying on the asphalt.
The nozzle was still pointing at the truck. A thin stream of water leaked from the connection, running in a slow line across the driveway toward the gutter. 20 minutes ago, she had held that hose like a scepter. Now it looked like evidence at a crime scene because that's exactly what it was. She looked at the neighbors closed doors, every single one shut.
The Brennan's who had nodded along when she read Blake's license plate. Mrs. Callaway, who had watched the entire confrontation from her porch without saying a word. Mrs. Turner, who had shaken her head but never opened her mouth. They had all watched. Some had agreed with her she'd seen it in their faces.
But now, in the flashing red and blue light, with three officers standing at attention, not one of them would admit they'd ever stood on that lawn. Diane Hartley was alone. Truly alone. Perhaps for the first time in 22 years on this street, she understood what that felt like. And it was about to get worse.
Blake reached into the truck cabin. He picked up the small black case from the passenger seat. He opened it slowly. Inside, the gold badge caught the last of the afternoon sun. Sharp, clean, unmistakable.
He lifted it out and held it up. Not high, not dramatic, just chest height, tilted so Diane could read every word engraved on it. Chief of Police, Glenwood Police Department. Blake Powell. He looked at her.
His voice was low, even. He didn't need to shout. The badge did all the talking. "My name is Blake Powell. I am the new chief of police of this city, and this is my house."