Olivia was only eight, yet she had already learned to understand the meaning hidden behind adult words.
“Some people think a nice view is more important than being nice,” I told her. “That’s their problem, not ours.”
“But you looked sad.”
“I wasn’t sad. I was thinking.”
Olivia chewed slowly. “About what?”
“About how proud Grandpa would be that we live in his house.”
That brought a faint smile to her face, and I hoped the matter was finished.
It was not.
The following afternoon, Harold came up the path carrying a plate of cookies beneath plastic wrap and wearing an expression that was far too casual to be convincing.
“A small welcome to the neighborhood gift,” he said, offering them to me. “My late wife’s recipe. She’d want the new neighbors to have them.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know. Can I sit for a minute?”
I gestured toward the porch steps.
Olivia was coloring inside, but the instant Harold sat down, I noticed her head tilt toward the screen door.
“So,” he said, placing his cap beside him. “Valerie.”
“You heard.”
“Ma’am, half the street heard. She’s not exactly a whisperer.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
“She’s done this before,” Harold continued. “Two families in five years. Both left. She has a way of making people feel like renters in their own homes.”
“Wonderful.”
“Here’s the thing.” He glanced toward me. “That balcony of hers? Not permitted. The stone wall along her side yard? Sitting three feet into the public easement land. Those fancy statues by her walkway? Also on the easement. Her contractor doesn’t have a license in this state.”
I stared at him.
“How do you know all that?”
“Because I’ve been keeping a file, ma’am. I was your dad’s friend for 30 years. He asked me once to keep an eye on things over here if anything ever happened to him. I’ve been documenting everything for years.”
“Mr. Harold…”
“Just Harold’s fine.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He selected a cookie, studied it briefly, then returned it to the plate.
“Because you’re going to need it. Document everything, Samantha. Every conversation. Every look. Get it time-stamped. Don’t confront her. Don’t yell. Just record it.”
I nodded carefully.
Inside the house, a crayon stopped scratching across paper.
Harold rose and placed his cap back on his head. Halfway down the path, he turned around.
“And keep parking that Chevy right where it is. That’s your driveway.”
I did.
There was nowhere else for it to go anyway.
That evening, I sat beside Olivia’s bed and tucked the quilt around her the way she liked.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“I’ve been thinking,” my daughter started.
“That’s dangerous.”
She giggled before becoming serious. Her eyes held the focused expression she wore whenever she was solving something.
“I have an idea,” she said.
“About what?”
“About the lady.”
I smoothed her hair away from her face.
“Sweetheart, you don’t need to worry about the lady. That’s my job.”
“I’m not worried,” Olivia yawned, stretching the moment dramatically. “I just had an idea.”
“Olivia, what idea?”
She had already rolled toward the wall and pulled the quilt over her shoulder. Within seconds, her breathing became slow and steady.
I remained beside her for a long time, wondering what kind of plan an eight-year-old could possibly be forming.
Outside, Kevin croaked as though he were wondering too.
Friday traffic was terrible.
By the time I reached our street, I wanted nothing more than to remove my work shoes and pour myself a cold drink.
I waved to my colleague Denise as her Corolla drove away from the corner. Harold had walked Olivia home from the bus stop, as he had every afternoon that week.
