“Do you have permission to be here?”
“I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“You heard me.” She swept a hand toward the house. “This is private property. You can’t just turn up in Ashborne Crest and pretend this belongs to you.”
He set his coffee on the low garden wall. “My name is Marcus Ellison. I moved in today.”
“Moved in?” She laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “Into the Whitcomb estate? With that car?”
“Yes.”
“And you expect me to accept that?”
“You don’t have to accept anything. I’m simply telling you the facts.”
Luis appeared in the doorway carrying a folder of delivery receipts. “Mr. Ellison, do you want the desk in the study or the upstairs office?”
“The downstairs study, please, Luis. We’ll set up the upstairs room later.”
Vanessa glanced from the mover to Marcus. The casual exchange should have answered her question. Instead, it irritated her. She seemed to hear the respectful title as a performance arranged to deceive her.
“Oh, that’s convincing,” she said. “You’ve got everyone playing along.”
Luis stopped moving. His gaze sharpened, but Marcus caught his eye and gave a slight shake of his head. The supervisor went back inside, uneasy. The other movers slowed near the truck, suddenly aware they had become part of something ugly.
“Ma’am,” Marcus said, “I don’t know you. I haven’t said anything disrespectful to you. I’d appreciate the same courtesy.”
“My name is Vanessa Hullbrook. I live directly across the street, and my family has been here longer than you could possibly understand.”
“Then I hope we can eventually be good neighbors.”
She stared at him. His politeness offended her more than anger might have. She had arrived expecting apology, nervous explanations, perhaps a panicked attempt to leave. Instead, he spoke as though the ground beneath them belonged to him, which it did.
“This neighborhood has standards,” she said. “We look out for suspicious activity. People like you don’t simply appear here with a Ferrari unless something is wrong.”
Marcus held her gaze. “People like me?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“I don’t. Tell me.”
Vanessa looked toward the street. A man walking a golden retriever had slowed near the neighboring hedge. Farther down, Evelyn Patterson, seventy-two, paused with a watering can beside her roses. At the corner, two teenagers on bicycles wheeled to a stop. Vanessa noticed the witnesses and raised her voice.
“I know what theft looks like, and I know when somebody is pretending to be something he isn’t.”
“You can check the public property records,” Marcus said. “My driver’s license matches the address. I have the registration and the closing documents inside. There is no mystery here.”
“Documents can be forged.”
“Of course they can. That’s why records can be verified independently.”
She made an impatient sound. “You’re very smooth. I’ll give you that. You probably practice these lines.”