"I know."
He glanced toward the house.
"Different occupants."
"What happened?"
Salas hesitated.
Police officers learn quickly that explaining neighborhood history can put them in the middle of private disputes they never intended to join.
Finally he said:
"Nothing criminal today."
That was not an answer.
But it was the answer he was willing to give.
Then, quietly enough that the woman with the phone would not hear:
"Keep your paperwork handy."
He touched two fingers to the brim of his cap.
Got back into his cruiser.
The lights went dark.
The car rolled away.
The mower across the street immediately returned to full throttle.
The woman two houses down resumed watering.
Patricia Voss lowered her phone.
For one long second, she looked directly at me.
No embarrassment.
No apology.
Not even curiosity.
Then she turned and disappeared inside her house.
I stood in the driveway holding a box of kitchen towels.
That was when I understood I had a problem.
I simply did not yet know what kind.
So I finished unloading.
What else was there to do?
I carried in the towels.
Then dishes.
Books.
A box marked OFFICE that contained almost nothing from my office because I had learned years earlier not to mix work files with personal property.
Every time I returned to the truck, I counted the houses with someone watching through a window.
Four.
Always four.
Nobody came over.
Nobody waved.
No pie.
No cookies.
No casserole.
In a subdivision like Larkspur Commons, a new homeowner usually receives a casserole within the hour. It is practically zoning.
Instead I received surveillance.
By late afternoon, most of my boxes were inside.
I sat on an unopened carton in the living room because the furniture truck would not arrive until Tuesday.
The blinds were halfway down against the western sun.
The house smelled like cardboard, dust, and fresh paint.
It was quiet enough that I heard a garage door open somewhere close by.
Then close.
I told myself it was a neighbor.
I was right.
I was also wrong.
Monday morning, there was an envelope taped to my front door.
Heavy cream paper.
Green laurel-wreath logo.
LARKSPUR COMMONS HOMEOWNERS ASSOCIATION.
Inside was a violation notice.
Date: Sunday.
The same Sunday I had been questioned by police on my driveway.
Section 4.2.
Obstruction of Common Area.
Unauthorized Vehicle Storage.
Fine: $150.
Signed in blue ink.
Patricia Voss, President.
The unauthorized vehicle was my truck.
The common area was apparently my driveway.
I read the notice twice.
Then a third time because the wording was so confident that I wondered whether I had somehow misunderstood the plat during closing.
I had spent almost thirty years reading documents drafted by people who wanted uncertain things to sound certain.
Contracts.
Affidavits.
Briefs.
Orders.
Settlement agreements.
Petitions.
The tone is recognizable.
A sentence does not become true because it is typed beneath a letterhead.
This notice had that tone.
No anger.
No explanation.
No doubt.
It read like something written by a person who had sent a hundred similar letters and never once been required to defend one.
I did not call Patricia.
I did not walk next door.
I made coffee.
Then I did something I should have done on closing day.
I opened the garage.
The door rose slowly on the chain drive.