Silence she could not. His calm was an insult she didn't have a weapon for. "Don't you walk away from me." Her voice cracked higher. "I am talking to you."
Blake said another box on the porch. He didn't turn around. You think you can just ignore me? I have lived here for 22 years. I know who belongs here and who doesn't.
And you? She pointed at his back, her silver bracelet jangling. Do not belong here. From across the street, Greg Wells had seen enough. Greg was 45 white, built like a man who drank beer on weekends and coached little league on Saturdays.
He wore cargo shorts and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He'd lived in Willowbrook for 9 years, and in that time had watched Diane Hartley harass the mailman, report a landscaping crew to ICE, and file a noise complaint against a six-year-old's birthday party. He was tired of her. He walked across the street, hands in his pockets. "Diane, leave the man alone.
He's got a key. He's got boxes. He's clearly moving in." Diane spun on him. Oh, here we go.
Greg Wells to the rescue. You want to vouch for him? Fine. When your garage gets broken into, don't come crying to me. "Nobody's garage is getting broken into, Diane."
You don't know that. She jabbed her finger toward Blake, who was carrying another box inside. Last month, the Henderson's patio furniture disappeared. Two weeks ago, somebody went through the miller's car. And now we have a strange man in a rusty truck claiming he bought a million-dollar house.
You want to connect the dots, Greg, or should I draw you a picture? Greg looked at her for a long moment. Then he shook his head. You're something else, Diane? He turned and walked back to his house.
He didn't argue further. He didn't call her out on what they both knew she really meant. He just left. Nobody else spoke. Mrs. Callaway sipped her lemonade and went inside.
The Brennan exchanged a glance and retreated to their living room. Mrs. Turner, three houses down, had never stopped watering her roses, but her hose had been pointed at the same spot for 5 minutes. Blake came back out for another box. His face showed nothing. His hands were steady, but inside the house where no one could see, he had paused for a moment at the kitchen counter, pressed both palms flat against the granite, and breathed.
Not because he was angry. He was past anger, because he knew what was coming next. 25 years had taught him the pattern. First the words, then the escalation, then the call. Diane was still standing on his driveway.