Chapter 1: The Woman Who Would Not Leave

Iris Galloway watched herself cross my side yard at 2:14 in the morning.

She looked much smaller on my phone than she had when she stood on my porch demanding entry.

In the recording, she wore a yellow raincoat and held a narrow canvas case against her ribs.

She stopped at the dining room window and looked carefully toward the street.

Then she produced something from the case and pressed it beneath the outer sill.

The camera could not show exactly what she attached.

It showed enough to make her stop smiling.

“Turn that off,” Iris said.

I kept my finger on the screen.

“You said you had never come onto my property.”

“I didn’t know anyone owned it then.”

“The deed transferred eight days before this recording.”

She glanced toward the road where the patrol cars had disappeared.

“You should have let me explain inside.”

“You had two officers here who could have heard your explanation.”

“This isn’t something I can say in front of them.”

I looked at the trim beneath the window.

The white paint was newer in one short section than along the rest of the sill.

My renovation contractor had noticed that difference on Wednesday and assumed somebody had repaired water damage.

Iris followed my gaze and went very still.

“What did you put there?” I asked.

She stepped toward me.

“You don’t understand what happens if somebody else finds it.”

I moved backward without lowering the phone.

“Then start with the truth.”

The first neighbor who had approached me on moving day had brought a cake and a warning about parking restrictions.

Iris had brought only questions.

She wanted to know which rooms I intended to renovate, whether I planned to replace the dining room windows, and whether I had already opened the wall behind the fireplace.

I had answered politely because I believed she was merely a difficult neighbor.

Now the questions had a different shape.

I walked toward the side gate, keeping the window in view.

Iris reached into her coat pocket.

For a moment I expected another phone call to police.

Instead, she unfolded a small piece of paper with a handwritten date.

“If you open that wall,” she said, “you could get somebody killed.”

I had spent seven years restoring old houses for a living.

I knew the difference between a warning and a threat.

I also knew when somebody was frightened enough to confuse the two.