Her phone vibrated.
Someone in the HOA chat had replied with a question mark.
Susan typed:
I don’t believe he’s the owner. I’m going to check.
She put down her iced tea.
Walked to the hallway mirror.
Adjusted her platinum-blonde hair.
Straightened the collar of her white tennis polo.
Then stepped outside.
Marcus carried another box through the front door.
Inside, the house smelled of fresh paint and polished hardwood.
Sunlight stretched through empty rooms.
Marcus placed the box beside the staircase.
He imagined Linda’s books along the far wall.
A lamp beside the chair.
Coffee on the porch.
The dining table they had ordered.
Family visiting for Thanksgiving.
He allowed himself to stand there for a moment.
Home.
He heard his father’s voice as clearly as if James were behind him.
Never be ashamed of something you earned honestly.
Marcus smiled faintly.
“Trying, Dad.”
Then he headed back outside.
Susan was crossing the lawn.
She did not bring cookies.
No welcome basket.
No introduction.
She stepped directly onto Marcus’s driveway and stopped six feet behind him as he leaned into the truck bed.
She cleared her throat.
Marcus straightened.
For the first time, they faced each other.
Susan’s gaze traveled across his T-shirt.
Jeans.
Boots.
Truck.
House.
Then back to his face.
“You need to move that vehicle.”
Marcus looked toward the Ford.
Then toward the driveway beneath it.
“I’m sorry?”
“I said you need to move that vehicle.”
“Where?”
“Off this property.”
Marcus studied her.
“This is my driveway.”
Susan pulled her sunglasses slightly down her nose.
“Your driveway?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She laughed.
“Who hired you?”
“Nobody.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I’m moving in.”
The laughter stopped.
“Moving in where?”
Marcus glanced toward the house.
“Here.”
Susan stared at him.
Then laughed again, louder.
“You expect me to believe you bought 814?”
“I don’t expect you to do anything.”
Marcus reached for another box.
“I bought the house. I’m moving in.”
Susan looked at the Ford.
“How much do you think this house costs?”
Marcus’s face remained neutral.
“I know what it costs.”
“I’ve lived next door twenty-two years.”
“Then I imagine you know too.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“You didn’t ask a question I owe you an answer to.”
Something flickered across Susan’s expression.
She had expected embarrassment.
Perhaps apology.
Instead, Marcus was politely refusing to participate in an interrogation.
“Prove you have permission to be inside.”
Marcus stared at her.
“Permission?”
“If you’re working for the owner, you should have paperwork.”
“I am the owner.”
“Then prove it.”
Marcus inhaled slowly.
He had spent almost three decades distinguishing confused people from confrontational people.
Susan was not confused.
Still, he gave her one opportunity.
“All right.”
Marcus carried the box onto the porch.
Susan followed.