Marcus drove home as the eastern horizon lightened. Brookside looked strangely ordinary at first. A newspaper lay on a driveway, sprinklers clicked across a lawn, and a man in running shoes jogged past without looking up. Then Marcus saw his own front door hanging crookedly, the tire tracks in the grass, and the fragments of broken wood along the porch.
He parked and sat for a moment with both hands on the steering wheel. He wanted to walk inside, repair the door, gather Angela's belongings, and make the place safe before she returned. But motion in the next block drew his attention: a surveyor in a reflective vest was placing small orange flags along the edge of Mrs. Carter's property.
Marcus approached from the sidewalk. "Morning. What are you surveying?"
The man glanced up from his clipboard. "Preliminary utility assessment."
"For which project?"
"Brookside renewal plan, I think. Company sent us out early."
"Did the homeowner authorize entry?"
The surveyor hesitated. "I just have coordinates. I'm not involved in the paperwork."
Marcus stepped back, photographed the truck's visible company markings and the flags from public space, and made a note of the time. He did not interfere with the equipment or accuse the worker of wrongdoing. The surveyor was probably doing a routine job, and the orders came from somewhere else. But the sight of markers circling homes whose owners had refused to sell made the pressure campaign feel chillingly concrete.
Mrs. Carter opened her door when Marcus knocked. The expression on her face changed the instant she recognized him. "Oh, thank heaven. Have they let Angela come home?"
"Not yet. Her lawyer is working on it. May I come in? I need to ask you about the developer, if you're comfortable."
She moved aside and led him into a kitchen smelling faintly of cinnamon and brewed coffee. The room was neat, with flowered curtains and a calendar hanging above a small table. On the wall by the refrigerator was a photograph of Herbert Carter standing in front of the house as a younger man, his sleeves rolled up and a hammer in one hand. Marcus could see the same porch railings outside that appeared in the picture.
"He built those railings twice," Mrs. Carter told him when she followed his gaze. "The first time I said they looked like a fence at a horse stable. He spent another summer making them the way I wanted. He never complained about it after the first week."
Marcus smiled briefly. "He sounds patient."
"Only when he loved somebody. Sit down."
She placed several folders on the table. At first the offers had been polite, printed on clean letterhead with phrases about revitalization and opportunities. Then came personalized warnings about insurance costs, deteriorating neighborhood safety, and the possibility that city improvements would leave holdouts isolated. Later there were code notices, copies of police complaints, and a handwritten note describing a visit from a uniformed officer who suggested she reconsider selling.