The first thing Sandra Fielding said when I opened my front door was, "I want my pool restored."
She said it with two police officers standing beside her, and she said it so confidently that for one disorienting second I wondered whether she had somehow persuaded herself that the property lines on Cloverfield Road had moved during the night.
Behind her, the October morning was clear and cool. A breeze stirred the leaves in the maple tree near my driveway, and a delivery truck passed on the street with a squeal from its brakes. The ordinary sounds made the extraordinary statement even stranger.
Officer Martinez, who stood on Sandra's left, introduced himself before she could repeat her demand. His partner, Officer Chen, held a notebook and looked from Sandra to me with an expression that suggested he intended to hear both sides before accepting either one. I appreciated that immediately. When somebody arrives at your home accompanied by police officers, it is difficult not to feel that the situation has already been decided somewhere without you.
"We received a complaint concerning damage to a swimming pool at this address," Martinez said. "Can you help us understand what happened?"
"Certainly," I told him. "Would you like to come inside?"
Sandra made a small, irritated sound. She was wearing white sneakers, a blue cardigan, and the expression she usually wore when a grocery-store cashier told her a coupon had expired. "You don't need to go through all that, Rachel. You drained the pool. That's what happened."
"I did drain a pool," I said. "My pool. With a licensed contractor. For maintenance."
"It's been our pool for two summers," she replied.
The officers exchanged a look. It was brief, almost invisible, but it was the first indication that Sandra's version of events might not be the simple property-damage complaint she had presented. I stepped aside and invited them into my kitchen. Sandra followed without waiting to be asked, which, under the circumstances, was almost too appropriate.
Through the broad window above my sink, the pool lay empty beneath the soft morning light. Twenty-two feet wide and forty-four feet long, it had a pale concrete interior, a line of blue tile at the waterline, and a coping edge that made a clean rectangle against the surrounding patio. It looked less like a recreational feature than an architectural drawing. The contractor had finished cleaning and preparing the surface for waterproofing two days earlier. Everything was exactly where the work schedule said it should be.
Officer Chen studied it. "Is there any damage?"
"Not to my knowledge. I have the inspection report."
"She emptied it," Sandra insisted. "The children were still using it."
"They weren't authorized to use it," I said.
Martinez turned to me. "What documentation do you have?"