Somebody called police on the Deputy Director of the FBI at her own house?
Margaret closed the app.
Her doorbell rang at 5:18.
She froze.
For a moment, she considered pretending not to be home.
Then she looked through the peephole.
Camille Harrison stood on the porch wearing loose linen pants and a white T-shirt. No sunglasses. No badge.
Margaret opened the door halfway.
“Good evening.” Camille’s tone was calm.
“Hi.” Margaret hated how small her voice sounded.
“I thought we should meet.” Margaret swallowed.
“Yes.” Camille waited.
Neither woman spoke for several seconds.
Margaret finally said, “I’m sorry about earlier.”
Camille looked at her. “What are you sorry for?”
The question caught Margaret off guard.
“For calling the police.” Camille nodded.
“Why did you call?”
Margaret began with the explanations she had prepared.
“I didn’t recognize you.” Camille waited.
“The house was recently sold.” Another pause.
“You hadn’t introduced yourself.” Camille raised one eyebrow.
Margaret continued anyway. “I thought someone might have gotten through the gate.”
“Did you see me climbing the fence?” No.
“Breaking anything?” No.
“Hiding?” Margaret looked down.
“No.”
“Did you walk across the street and ask whether I lived there?” Margaret did not answer.
Camille’s voice stayed calm. “You decided police were the appropriate first introduction.”
Margaret’s face burned. “I honestly thought I was protecting the neighborhood.”
Camille nodded. “I believe you thought that.”
Margaret looked relieved too quickly. Camille noticed.
“That doesn’t make the decision harmless.”
The relief disappeared.
Camille leaned slightly against the porch railing. “Do you know what bothers me most?”
Margaret shook her head.
“It isn’t that you didn’t know my title.” She looked toward her own house.
“It’s that the title changed how embarrassing the situation became for you.”
Margaret opened her mouth.
Camille continued. “If I were a schoolteacher, would you be less embarrassed?”
Margaret said nothing.
“If I delivered packages, would calling police have been more reasonable?”
“No.” Her answer came quietly.
“If I were somebody’s nineteen-year-old daughter house-sitting for the weekend, would the risk to me have been less important?”
Margaret looked at the floor.
Camille nodded. “Exactly.”
Margaret finally whispered, “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt.”
“I know.” Camille straightened.
“Most harmful assumptions don’t begin with somebody saying, ‘I want to hurt someone.’”
Margaret looked at her.
“They begin with somebody being very certain about a story they never verified.”
That sentence stayed between them.
Camille stepped back from the porch.
“I’m not here to yell at you.” Margaret looked surprised.
“I spend enough of my life around conflict.” Camille continued.
“But I am asking you not to watch my backyard with binoculars.”
Margaret’s face went crimson.
Camille almost smiled.
“Yes, I saw them.”
Margaret nodded. “Okay.”
“And if something genuinely dangerous happens at my house, call the police.”