Their next-door neighbor, Mrs. Delaney, had been away visiting family when James died, and several new families had moved into the subdivision during the sisters' years away. Some neighbors remembered the twins, some recognized only the house, and others knew nothing about either. The sisters had waved to a woman across the street while carrying paint cans up the path; the woman had paused, looked at their car, and returned indoors without waving back. Naomi thought little of it. People in their neighborhood had become more private over the years, and the twins had no interest in demanding friendliness from strangers.
At the door, Maya set the paint beside the porch bench and stretched the ache from her shoulders. Naomi balanced her bag of brushes on one hip, brought out the key ring that still held the little brass tag James had engraved with their initials, and turned the front lock. The latch had always been stiff in damp weather, so she pulled the door toward her while turning the key, just as her father had taught her. It opened with a familiar click. The smell inside was a mixture of furniture polish, old paper, and the lemon soap James used on the kitchen floor.
"Finally got everything on Dad's list," Maya said, reading from the spiral notebook they had found in his workshop. It was written in his square, patient handwriting, with lines for porch paint, screen-door hinges, and replacement weather stripping. Naomi looked down at the brushes and smiled. "He would have loved watching us fix up his—"
"Excuse me."
The voice came from the yard, loud enough that both women turned at once. Four white police officers stood beyond the brick path with their hands hovering near their belts. The lead officer was stocky, with gray beginning at his temples and pale blue eyes that held on the sisters' faces without the smallest sign of recognition. A dark name strip identified him as R. PIKE, and his sergeant's stripes were visible on his sleeve. He did not introduce himself until after he had examined the open door, the paint buckets, and the two women occupying the porch.
"Sergeant Randall Pike, city police," he announced. "We received a report about suspicious activity at this address. Two women seen forcing their way into a house that is supposed to be empty."
Naomi raised the key ring, its worn brass glinting in the sunlight. "Nobody forced the door. This is our family's house, and that key has opened it for years." Maya added that they were there to do repairs, then indicated the cans sitting plainly beside the front door. She spoke without irritation because there was an obvious explanation for the misunderstanding, and she assumed the officer would want to clear it up. Pike looked at the keys as if they were a magician's trick, then gave a dismissive chuckle.
"Keys don't prove you own a house," he said. "People make copies, people steal them, and burglars bring tools. You two come down here where I can get a better look at you."
Maya's smile faded, but her tone remained even. "The county records will show James Carter as the former owner and our names as the current owners. We also have the estate documentation, tax receipts, and identification inside, if you want us to provide them." Naomi pointed toward the doorway behind them. "Or you can call the records office and confirm it yourself without entering the home."
Pike gave no indication that he had heard either suggestion. "Nobody goes inside until I say so. Officers, spread out and keep them from slipping away."