"I don't think so." Her gaze returned to his face, and whatever polite curiosity might have been possible vanished. "This house belongs to Margaret Whitmore. I've lived next door for years, so I would know."
"It used to belong to Mrs. Whitmore," Malik replied. "I closed on it Thursday."
"Impossible," she said immediately. "Margaret would have told me."
He shifted the box so he could reach his pocket. "You can confirm the sale through the county records if you'd like. The real estate agency handled it, and Pinnacle Title Services completed the transfer."
"I didn't ask for a sales pitch." She took another step toward him and looked at the house with an offended expression. "Margaret and I had coffee every Tuesday for three years. She wouldn't sell a house like this without telling people in the neighborhood."
Malik could have explained that a seller did not need a neighbor's permission and that private transactions often involved decisions people preferred not to discuss. He could have told her that Margaret had moved to be closer to family, that his offer had been accepted after a professional inspection, and that the paperwork had been signed in front of people who verified every detail. Instead, he kept his answer short. He had encountered too many confrontations that became worse the moment someone mistook an explanation for an invitation to argue.
"I understand that you're surprised," he said. "But the sale is complete. I own the house now."
The woman crossed her arms. "Do you have any idea what property in this neighborhood is worth? Margaret paid nearly eight hundred thousand dollars years ago, and this place is worth well over a million now."
"I'm aware of the purchase price."
"And you expect me to believe you can afford it?"
The question changed the air between them. Until that moment, Malik had been willing to treat her behavior as an intrusive neighbor's suspicion about an unexpected sale. Now her gaze traveled deliberately from his face to his shoes, to the unremarkable sedan, and back to the house, as if the presence of a Black man carrying kitchen supplies were evidence of something suspicious. He recognized the sequence because he had seen it before, both in ordinary life and in the work he did for a living.
"You don't have to believe anything about my finances," he said. "You do have to let me enter my home."
"People don't just appear here with expensive houses and expect no questions," she replied. "We have standards. This is a good neighborhood."
"I'm glad it's a good neighborhood. That's one reason I chose it."
"Margaret never mentioned selling to someone like you."
The words were quiet enough that a passing driver probably would not have heard them, but they landed with more force than her raised voice had. Malik looked at her for a moment, giving her an opportunity to explain or withdraw what she had said. She did neither. She held his gaze, chin slightly elevated, almost daring him to object.
"My name is Malik Reigns," he said. "And what's yours?"
"Vivien Caroway." She said the name as though it should settle the matter. "I'm on the neighborhood association's hospitality committee. I know the people who live on this street, and I make sure things stay the way they should."