Marcus did not follow her or answer. He let her cross the road in the silence she had earned. Only after the police cruiser disappeared did he turn to Luis, whose expression was a mixture of worry and frustration.
“I’m sorry that happened,” Luis said. “They could have asked any of us. We’ve been here all morning.”
“You didn’t cause it.”
“Still. My youngest son saw things like that growing up, and I always hoped he wouldn’t have to see them as an adult.”
Marcus looked at the scuffed edge of the delivery ramp and the men waiting beside it. “Finish the move,” he said gently. “There’s already been enough time stolen from us.”
For the next hour he remained outside, helping direct traffic around the truck and speaking to the movers as though nothing had happened. The effort was exhausting. It would have been easier to shout, to demand that everyone acknowledge what had been done, to walk into the house and slam the door. Instead, he asked Luis whether the upstairs railing needed protecting and made sure the crew could eat lunch in the shade. He refused to let Vanessa determine how he treated people who had shown him respect.
By early afternoon the house was filled with furniture but still smelled of fresh paint and cardboard. Marcus stood in the downstairs study, where his mahogany desk faced tall windows overlooking the garden. On the wall opposite it he planned to hang a photograph of his father standing in front of the garage with oil on his hands and a grin on his face. Marcus unpacked that photograph himself. When he placed it on the desk, the image steadied him more than any expensive object could have done.
He retrieved the security recordings from three cameras: one above the garage, one integrated into the doorbell, and one near the front gate. The angles overlapped, giving him a continuous view of Vanessa entering the property, approaching him, and speaking to the officers. The audio was clear, including her change of tone during the emergency call. He created copies in his encrypted storage account, recorded the names he had heard, and wrote down the time of each significant exchange. He photographed the marks on his wrists before they faded.
Marcus was not preparing to ruin a stranger’s life. He was preserving an accurate record because he knew how quickly a confident accusation could become an accepted story. If the people who had witnessed the incident remembered one thing and the official report described another, the footage would matter. If Vanessa later claimed she had been threatened, the footage would matter. If she left him alone, he would be happy never to open the folder again.
But across the street, Vanessa was doing anything except leaving him alone.