He laughed too, and for a few seconds it felt as though Marguerite were merely in another room. Then my phone buzzed with a text from Ruth reminding me to keep my interaction brief and factual if anybody came to the house. I put it facedown beside the sugar bowl. The day had begun, and there was no use pretending I could stop it by staring at the screen.
At eleven I raised the garage door and rolled the Mustang halfway into the driveway. I was not staging a confrontation; the car needed its regular warm-up, and I had promised Tate we would check the brakes before taking it to the youth showcase. I let the engine idle until the temperature gauge rose, then shut it off and opened the hood. The familiar smell of warm metal and old upholstery reminded me of every Saturday we had spent inside that garage.
Tate helped check the brake lights and adjusted a loose trim fastener on the passenger door. We took our time, talking about his classes, the new roommate who left cereal bowls on the floor, and whether the university would survive its next football season. When the inspection was finished, he went inside for a late lunch. I stayed outside with a polishing cloth and a bottle of detail spray.
At half past one, I saw Hadley walk out of her front door. She wore the same coral blouse and white capris she had worn when she brought the cake. Bryson followed her with a folded paper in one hand, and Whit emerged behind them just long enough to speak quietly to his wife before getting into his Range Rover. Hadley stood on the curb facing my garage, pretending to check messages while keeping the Mustang in her line of sight.
I had become accustomed to being watched. I did not invite a conversation or go looking for one. I wiped the front grille and tried to get a small mark off a piece of trim that Tate had insisted was beyond repair. Above me, his bedroom window was open a few inches, and I knew he was there because he had told me he wanted the driveway covered by his camera.
A few minutes later, Hadley lifted her phone and began speaking urgently. I could not hear the words, only the sharp rhythm of her voice as she looked from the paper in Bryson's hand to the vehicle. She nodded twice, then ended the call. Bryson shifted his weight and asked her something I could not make out.
They waited. The waiting itself changed their faces. Hadley seemed pleased with how quickly the world was responding to her, but Bryson kept glancing down at the receipt and rubbing his thumb along the folded edge. He looked less like a man taking possession of his new car than a student rehearsing an answer before a difficult exam.
At 1:54 a marked Cederville police SUV turned into the cul-de-sac. Sergeant Tucker Brennan was driving, and Officer Lane Murchison occupied the passenger seat. They moved slowly, as any sensible officers would when approaching a property dispute that one party had described as a stolen vehicle. The SUV stopped at the curb, not across my driveway, and both officers stepped out.