David's expression barely moved. "I wasn't trying to." He had woken before dawn, driven to the new house with a thermos of coffee, and spent the early morning checking that the movers had the right inventory. He had eaten half a bagel over the kitchen sink because the table had not arrived, and the greatest complication he expected that day involved a sofa too wide for a hallway. He was too tired for a stranger's accusation and too experienced with similar accusations to be surprised.
"I'm Clare Whitmore," the woman said, straightening as though the name should settle the matter. "My family has lived across from this property for twenty-three years. I know who belongs on this street."
"Then I suppose we're meeting for the first time." He gave a brief nod. "Good morning, Ms. Whitmore."
That answer did not satisfy her. She wanted him to become apologetic, to hurry toward an explanation, perhaps to reveal he was a contractor who had taken liberties with a customer's property. His calmness seemed to irritate her more than an angry denial would have. She looked at the expensive car again and then at his jacket, silently revisiting a calculation whose starting assumption was already wrong.
"How did you get access to the house?" she asked. "And don't tell me you just walked up with those movers."
"I have the keys because the house is mine." David carefully drew his key ring from his pocket. "I can show you the registration for the Ferrari. The property transfer is public record, too, if you would like to check it."
The keys caught the sunlight, and an old brass object swung beneath them. It was smaller than a pocket watch, round and thick, with a hinged cover scratched by years of use. The lid was dented in one place and its edges polished smooth where a thumb had rubbed them almost automatically. Three letters had been engraved on the back: WMG.
Clare's attention dropped to the object. Her face changed for an instant, and David noticed the change because he had spent his professional life studying the small, involuntary reactions people made before choosing what they wanted to say. She recognized the initials. Then suspicion replaced recognition, swift and certain.
"Where did you get that?" she demanded.
"It's mine."
"That is the old insignia of Whitmore Mobility Group. My father's company." She took a step closer. "Those were never sold in stores."
David folded the keys into his palm. The compass had been given to him almost nineteen years earlier, on an afternoon hotter than this one, by someone who had called him an engineer when nearly everyone else in the room called him temporary labor. He kept the object for the same reason he kept his worn jacket: it had been there for the good years and the hard ones. He had not planned to discuss its history with the first neighbor he met.
"Then you know it probably means something to the person carrying it," he said.
"Did you take it from someone?"