CHAPTER 1: THE WOMAN WHO WAITED

The first thing I noticed was the black bag dragging against the flagstones beside my swimming pool.

My neighbor, Gloria Vance, held it with both hands because it was too heavy for one.

At seventy-one, Gloria ordinarily moved with a cane when anyone was watching from the street.

That morning she crossed my backyard without a limp.

She opened the bag and tipped out crushed drink cartons, stained paper cups, food wrappers, and a broken plastic toy.

The trash struck the water in waves, separating across the blue surface like a deliberate insult.

I stood behind the sliding glass door with a mug of untouched coffee and watched her finish.

My daughter, Paige, was upstairs studying for a certification exam, and the last thing she needed was another confrontation.

I had lived in North Carolina long enough to recognize the kind of neighbor who considered another person’s patience an invitation.

Gloria had tested mine for nine months.

She had complained about my pool pump, my garden lights, and the evening my brother parked his pickup in my driveway.

But this was the first time she had walked through my gate and dumped garbage into the water.

When the bag was empty, she didn’t flee.

She turned toward my glass door, took out her phone, and made a call while looking straight at me.

I could not hear what she said.

I could see the performance in her stance, especially the way she positioned herself between my patio chairs and the pool.

She wanted me outside.

I set my coffee down and reached for my own phone.

The camera I installed beneath the kitchen eave was visible from the yard, and Gloria had made a habit of pointing at it whenever she complained about being watched.

She had no idea about the smaller camera inside a decorative birdhouse by the maple tree.

That one faced the gate, the pool equipment, and the narrow passage to the adjoining properties.

I hadn’t put it there to spy on anybody.

Two months earlier, somebody had entered my yard at night and left a faucet running until my patio flooded.

The birdhouse camera was a response to that trespass, and its recordings were stored securely.

I watched Gloria hold the phone to her ear.

Then she nodded at something the caller said and gave me a little wave.

The wave frightened me more than the trash.

I realized she was waiting for someone else to arrive.

CHAPTER 2: THE FIRST WITNESS