Rebecca sat very still beside me. "You don't need to open it," she said.
"I know."
I pressed the camera microphone. "Minerva, you need to leave. You're not invited here. If there's anything related to legal paperwork, contact Clara."
She stepped closer to the lens. "So you can hide behind another woman? Is that why you haven't been answering? You replaced me already?"
I wanted to tell her that our relationship had ended when she announced another engagement over pasta. I wanted to point out the months of legal proceedings and the fact that she had moved in with Landon during that time. I wanted, more than anything, to make her see how strange her accusation sounded. But I'd spent enough evenings learning that she didn't have to agree with me for the boundary to exist.
"I'm not discussing my personal life with you," I said. "Please leave the property."
She struck the door with the flat of her hand. "You cheated on me. Everybody knows it. You were probably seeing her while you were still with me."
Rebecca stood. "Patrick, I'm going into the kitchen. I don't want to be on camera or in the window. If you need me, tell me."
I nodded, grateful that she was making a decision for herself rather than waiting for me to do it. Then Minerva shouted Rebecca's name. I don't know how she learned it. I had posted one photograph from a picnic with friends, but I hadn't identified Rebecca in the caption, and neither of us had announced anything publicly. The realization that Minerva had been paying enough attention to know her name made my shoulders tighten.
"Rebecca!" she yelled toward the window. "You should know he lies. He lies to everybody. He'll do it to you too."
I told Minerva one more time to leave. She moved toward the side path instead, and the motion sensor above the garage illuminated the gravel. I saw her return to the porch, angrier than before, and decided I had enough. I called the police and gave the dispatcher a concise description of the prior property incidents, the recent repeated visits, and the present disturbance. The dispatcher told me to remain inside and avoid physical contact.
While we waited, Minerva began crying. The crying came in abrupt waves, interrupted by demands that I admit I'd ruined her life. "I just want closure," she said. "You never gave me a real conversation. You let the police do your talking."
I could hear the hurt beneath the anger, and part of me still reacted to it automatically. I had spent so long being responsible for calming her that my first instinct was to open the door and explain until she stopped. Instead, I looked toward the kitchen, where Rebecca had turned on the overhead light and was standing beside the counter with her arms folded. She wasn't telling me what to do. She was waiting to see what I would choose.