“Has anything like this happened before?” Ramirez asked.
Evelyn hesitated, and I noticed it because hesitation had never been part of her repertoire.
“There were a few odd things this summer,” she admitted slowly. “A flower pot knocked over, the gate unlatched once or twice. I assumed it was the wind.”
“Or someone testing the perimeter,” Ramirez said bluntly, jotting notes on her pad. “We’ve had a couple of reports in this neighborhood recently. Nothing violent yet, mostly trespassing and petty theft. But it’s escalating.”
Escalating. The word hung in the air like a warning flare.
After the police left, promising increased patrols, Evelyn stood on her back steps staring at the darkened yard as if expecting it to reveal its secrets under scrutiny.
“I didn’t tell anyone about the earlier incidents,” she said quietly. “It felt foolish. Like admitting I couldn’t manage my own property.”
I understood that impulse too well.
“You don’t have to manage everything alone,” I said, surprising myself with the firmness of my tone. “That’s not a moral achievement. It’s just exhausting.”
She let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though it carried no humor.
