"Neither do I," Jordan admitted.
"Then why go?"
He had thought about the question before answering. "Because they finally reached the point where they're willing to ask someone different to try. I can't promise they'll like the answers. But I'd rather find out than spend the rest of my life wondering whether I could have helped."
Nia had reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. "Then we do it together. But when somebody gets angry because you won't pretend a problem doesn't exist, you don't carry it alone."
He had promised. He meant the promise, although neither of them knew how quickly they would need it. The formal hiring had been approved at a public council meeting, and a brief announcement appeared on the town website, but Jordan's photograph had not been circulated inside the department. Most of the officers knew the name of the incoming chief and little else about him. Jordan had planned to spend his first weeks meeting people one at a time, quietly learning what worked and what needed attention before making grand declarations.
The new house was part of that plan. It sat fifteen minutes from the station and ten minutes from the community center where Nia hoped to volunteer. A grocery store, elementary school, and walking trail were all nearby, and the neighborhood seemed calm during their first visit. Jordan had walked along the sidewalks admiring the older oaks and the neat gardens while Nia tested the front gate and imagined evenings when neither of them would have to drive across town just to find a little quiet.
Their first encounter with Karen Whitcomb came before they had finished unloading the moving truck. She emerged from the house across the street carrying a tiny white dog with a blue ribbon attached to its collar. She was in her mid-fifties, with an inverted blonde bob and an expression of alert curiosity that tightened the moment she saw Jordan carry a box through the front door. She looked at the moving truck, then at Jordan, then at the house number as if confirming that the delivery had arrived at the correct address.
"Can I help you?" Jordan asked pleasantly.
"Are you the movers?" she said.
"No, ma'am. We're the homeowners. I'm Jordan, and this is my wife, Nia."
Karen did not return his smile. "I see. I wasn't aware the sale had gone through. People usually introduce themselves to the neighborhood association before making major changes."
Nia stepped beside him. "We've only been here a few hours. We're still finding the coffee mugs."
"There are standards here," Karen continued, ignoring the joke. "Parking, noise, lawn maintenance, visible equipment. We work very hard to keep the neighborhood looking a certain way."
Jordan glanced down the street, where a child's basketball hoop leaned beside a garage and another house displayed wind chimes across the porch. "We like the neighborhood. That's why we bought here."
"Of course," Karen said, in a tone suggesting that she did not believe him. She lifted the dog higher and looked at the moving truck again. "Just make sure whoever owns that truck doesn't block the sidewalk. I've had to call people about that before."