“Deputy Director?” Camille nodded.
“That would be me.”
For several seconds, neither officer spoke. Camille had seen the reaction before in different contexts. People’s posture changed when they learned a title that changed the amount of trouble attached to being wrong.
She disliked that reaction more than she enjoyed it.
“I bought the property four weeks ago,” Camille said. “Closing documents are inside if you actually need them.”
Reyes shook his head. “Your license is enough.”
“Good.” Camille returned the wallet to her bag.
Price cleared his throat. “We apologize for the interruption.”
Camille looked toward the gate. “Who called?”
Neither officer immediately answered. Camille already knew the department probably would not casually identify a caller at the scene.
She looked toward Margaret’s house instead. The porch was partially visible through a gap in the hedges. A pale straw hat disappeared behind a post.
Camille smiled faintly. “Never mind.”
Reyes followed her gaze. His expression told her everything she needed.
“Could you do me a favor?” Camille asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” She put her sunglasses back on.
“Tell whoever called that the woman by the pool lives here.” Reyes nodded.
“And perhaps remind them that not recognizing someone is not evidence of a crime.” Price nodded more quickly.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The officers left. Camille waited until the gate clicked shut before sitting again.
She tried reading. She made it through half a page.
Then she closed the book.
Across the street, Margaret stepped behind the porch column and waited for the officers to return. She expected one of them to stop and tell her what happened. Neither did.
Reyes walked directly to the cruiser. Price got into the passenger side.
The vehicle pulled away.
Margaret’s stomach tightened.
She looked toward the corner house. Camille was still beside the pool.
No handcuffs. No police escort.
No argument.
Nothing.
Margaret went inside and shut the door.
The air conditioning felt suddenly aggressive against her damp skin. She carried the lemonade into the kitchen, placed it on the counter, and stood there trying to organize what had happened.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Lorraine Baxter two houses down appeared.
Police on Willow Creek? Everything okay?
Margaret ignored it.
Another message arrived.
Was it the new neighbor?
Margaret placed the phone face down.
Then curiosity defeated caution.
She opened her tablet and searched the name she heard faintly when one officer had repeated it.
Camille Harrison FBI.
The first photograph appeared immediately.
Camille stood behind a podium in Washington wearing a dark suit. Another showed her beside the Attorney General.
A third showed her testifying before a Senate committee.
Margaret’s face drained of color.
She opened an article.
Camille R. Harrison appointed FBI Deputy Director after 23-year career.
The story described counterterrorism investigations, international assignments, major organized crime cases, and her recent Senate testimony on domestic security threats. Margaret read several paragraphs without absorbing them.
Then the meaning settled.
She had called local police on the Deputy Director of the FBI for reading beside her own swimming pool.
Margaret covered her face.
Her first emotion was humiliation.
The second was fear.
Only later would she realize those emotions were still mostly about herself.
By four o’clock, the neighborhood Facebook group knew something had happened. Someone walking a dog had photographed two patrol cars outside Camille’s address.
The caption read, Apparently our new neighbor had an interesting welcome committee today.
Comments appeared quickly.
What happened?
Please tell me nobody called cops because they didn’t recognize her.
Then someone posted a screenshot of Camille’s FBI biography.
Oh my God.