That afternoon I hired a locksmith to reset the garage-door opener and replace the lock on the side entrance. He explained that the motor was older but serviceable and that the existing remotes could be rendered useless by changing the programming. I watched the process and tested the new remote twice. Then I asked him to make sure an external release was available for legitimate emergencies. I did not want to cure one foolish arrangement by creating a safety problem for myself.
Nine households still possessed remotes that had once opened my garage. By the time the locksmith left, those remotes opened nothing. I cannot deny that the thought gave me a certain satisfaction. Every little gray piece of plastic, wherever it happened to be resting that afternoon, had lost the quiet power Patricia had distributed across the neighborhood.
I repaired the loose section of fence between my yard and hers, closing the gap where materials had once been brought through for pool construction. I photographed the boundary before and after the work. I did not move the actual fence line or place anything across an easement. I simply restored a missing panel on my own side. When Patricia looked over from her backyard, I nodded and returned to the screws.
By Sunday morning my truck fit inside the garage. It was the first time I had parked there since the closing. I stood for a moment beside it, listening to the motor wind down and the door settle into its tracks. My tools were lined against the rear wall. The floor was swept, the outlet was empty, and there was not one communal Christmas wreath in sight.
It should have felt like the end.
But the twenty-two notices in my kitchen folder, Linda's photographs, and the copy of the hand-colored subdivision map told me it was not. The neighbors had watched the motor home leave, but many of them still believed they had lost something that rightfully belonged to them. Patricia would describe the tow as an act of aggression by a judge. The forged lease might go unexamined in their conversations. Within a week the story could become another piece of evidence in her account of a powerful newcomer destroying the community.
I needed them to see the property without my telling them what to think about it.
I made another list of the remaining items. Some had been hidden behind the storage tubs or left in the backyard, where I had not realized they belonged to the same collection. A lawn mower with a name written on its handle. Several boxes of pool tile. A pair of kayaks laid beneath a tarp by the fence.
A child's bicycle with a flat tire, a portable patio heater, and an expensive pool lounger whose fabric still smelled faintly of chlorine. I had not moved those items during the first cleanup because their ownership was uncertain and I wanted more time to document them.
I photographed everything, then prepared a short notice offering the people who owned the items a chance to reclaim them. I did not publish accusations. I did not say Patricia had stolen anything, because ownership of each item needed to be established separately. The notice stated that items previously stored on my property would be displayed in the driveway the following Saturday from noon until three, that owners could identify and collect them, and that anything disputed would remain secured until it was resolved.