"Then you know where your property ends," Malik answered. "I need to take this box inside."
He placed the box gently on the porch step, took out his keys, and started toward the door. Vivien moved at once, planting herself between him and the lock with one arm extended. Malik stopped before touching her, his hand still open around the key ring. The gesture was so blatant that for a moment he could only look at her, surprised that a grown adult would deliberately block the entryway of a house she did not own.
"Don't even think about it," she warned. "Anyone can copy keys. For all I know, you got inside Margaret's house and stole hers."
"Mrs. Caroway, the locks were transferred at closing. The deed is recorded, and I have the signed documents."
"Documents can be forged."
"Then let someone verify them."
"I don't need a stranger telling me how this street works."
Malik glanced at the security camera mounted above the porch light. The little green indicator was visible beneath the housing, and he remembered the installer explaining that the system would upload clips to protected cloud storage as well as saving them on the local hub. It was one of the first improvements he had made after closing, partly because the property was large and partly because his new position could attract unwanted attention. He had not imagined the first footage worth preserving would be a neighbor standing at his own front door refusing to let him inside.
"I'm asking you again to move," he said. "You can contact the recorder's office, the real estate agent, or the seller. But you cannot decide I don't own my house because you don't like the answer."
Vivien pulled her phone from her jacket. Her expression changed from outraged certainty to something almost pleased, as if she had been waiting for permission to escalate. She stepped toward the edge of the porch and pressed a number, turning slightly so Malik could not see the screen. Her voice softened unexpectedly when someone answered, becoming intimate and familiar.
"Owen, it's Vivien," she said. "I have a problem at Margaret's old place. A man claims he owns it and is trying to get inside. I don't trust him. Can you come?"
Malik looked at her with renewed concern. She had not dialed the emergency number, and the name she used sounded like a person rather than a dispatcher. He caught only fragments of the other side of the conversation, but the familiarity was unmistakable. Vivien listened, nodded, and then said, "Good. I knew you'd understand. I'll make the official call too."
She ended the conversation and immediately dialed again. This time her voice rose sharply, each word delivered for Malik to hear. "I need officers at 847 Elmwood Drive. There's a man trying to break into my neighbor's house, and he won't leave when I tell him to."
"I'm not breaking in," Malik said clearly enough for the phone to capture. "I own this property."
Vivien spoke over him. "He's arguing with me now. He's getting aggressive, and I don't know what he'll do if he gets through the door. Margaret Whitmore owns that house, and this man has keys he shouldn't have."