I suspected the other man because I had been trained by habit to think suspicion was reasonable.
I was wrong before either man said a word.
The grandmother who had walked away wrote something similar.
Small admissions.
None heroic.
All necessary.
Months after the incident, Sam and Patricia sat on their front porch on a Tuesday evening.
The neighborhood was quiet.
Whitmore Heights looked exactly as Derek had imagined it.
Large homes.
Old trees.
Well-kept sidewalks.
Children riding bicycles before dinner.
Patricia held a glass of wine.
Sam drank tea.
She looked at him.
“You could have told him.”
Sam knew immediately what she meant.
“In the parking lot.”
“Yes.”
She mimicked him.
“Officer, I am Associate Justice Samuel Owens of the Ohio Supreme Court.”
Sam smiled.
“I don’t sound like that.”
“You absolutely sound like that.”
“No.”
“Especially when annoyed.”
He shook his head.
Patricia became serious.
“One sentence.”
“Yes.”
“It probably ends there.”
“Probably.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Sam looked toward the street.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then:
“Because for the first few minutes, I kept thinking he would check.”