She looked at him.
“My daughter’s room.”
“You like it?”
“She will.”
He made an offer that evening.
Camille declined to participate in the move.
She was preparing for exams.
At least that was the official explanation.
Darius suspected there was another reason.
Moves frightened her.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
After Sandra died, every significant change carried the faint suggestion that something else might disappear permanently.
Camille disguised that anxiety behind teenage practicality.
“You’ll pick ugly curtains if I’m there or not.”
“I will buy no curtains.”
“That’s worse.”
“You can choose them later.”
“Exactly. Problem solved.”
Then more quietly:
“Just make it feel like ours before I come.”
Darius understood.
That became his mission.
He assembled her desk first.
Then the bed.
Then he arranged four books she had specifically asked him not to lose.
He found a place for the framed photograph from Virginia Beach.
Sandra and Camille at the boardwalk eight years earlier.
Camille was nine.
Sandra wore sunglasses pushed onto her head, hair moving in the wind.
Both were laughing.
Darius had taken the photograph seconds after Sandra said something completely inappropriate about a tourist’s hat.
He no longer remembered the exact joke.
He remembered the laugh.
Saturday was supposed to finish the move.
The professional movers had left around two.
Darius drove back to the storage unit for the final load himself.
Television.
Books.
Kitchen pieces.
A duffel containing work clothing.
Several personal files.
The hard-sided case he ordinarily kept secured in his home office.
Before leaving the storage facility, Darius performed an old habit without thinking.
He walked around the SUV.
Checked tires.
Windows.
Rear hatch.
Then reviewed the exterior camera system.
The vehicle had multiple security cameras because of his work history and previous assignments. Three years earlier, someone connected to a federal investigation had tampered with a surveillance vehicle used by his team.
Since then Darius preferred equipment that documented its environment.
Not paranoia.
Procedure.
Everything looked normal.
He adjusted the watch on his left wrist.
The device looked ordinary but included an emergency function tied to his agency equipment.
He had activated that feature only once in training.
He hoped never to use it outside training.
At 4:18 p.m., Darius left the storage unit.
Twenty-two minutes later, he turned onto Crest View Drive.
The sun had moved low enough to throw long shadows from the maples across the lawns.
He pulled into 4212 at 4:40.
The garage door remained open from the movers.
He sat behind the wheel for perhaps thirty seconds.
Looked at the house.
For the first time, it felt almost finished.
Not decorated.
Not settled.
But theirs.
He thought about calling Camille.
Decided against it.
He wanted her first impression in person.
Darius opened the rear hatch.
The first load was awkward.
Television in both hands.
Two small boxes stacked against his chest.
He carried everything into the garage.
Set it against the interior wall.
Returned outside.
That was when a patrol car moved slowly along Crest View Drive.
Darius noticed it without turning his head.
Years of investigative work had given him an awareness of vehicles that changed speed near him.
The Hawthorne County patrol car passed the house.
Continued perhaps thirty feet.
Brake lights.
Stop.
Then reverse.
Darius stood beside the SUV.
Sergeant Gavin Ror drove.
Officer Miles Keaton occupied the passenger seat.
Travis Bellamy rode in the rear.
All three wore standard patrol uniforms.
Nothing about the car indicated an emergency.
No lights.
No siren.
No call Darius could see them responding to.
Ror parked near the curb.
The driver’s door opened.
“Where you going, buddy?”
Darius turned.
Ror remained half behind the door with one hand resting on the roof.
“Moving in.”
Ror looked toward the house.
“Whose place is this?”