If she attacked me in public, officers would have a visible complaint, witnesses, and their own cameras.
She was betting the police would remove her and the whistle before the men understood what she carried.
The gamble had nearly failed because nobody had checked the whistle until the message arrived.
Maren covered her mouth with both hands.
I felt angry all over again.
Lorraine had risked hurting me and drawing a false accusation onto my record to make her plan work.
She had never asked whether I was willing to be part of it.
I wanted answers from her face to face.
Munroe arranged for her lawyer to be contacted.
Lorraine declined to speak that afternoon.
Her attorney said she was afraid of a person who might learn what was in police custody if she disclosed it too early.
The detective said the case could not rest on her intentions alone.
She had still assaulted a neighbor, and the formal complaint would proceed through the appropriate channels.
He also said investigators could offer protections for witnesses, though none could be promised by a stranger over the telephone.
We left the station at dusk.
Maren asked whether she should tell Isabel she had received the text.
Munroe had already requested that she refrain from replying until technicians could determine whether the number had been spoofed.
I drove home by the long route, checking my mirrors more than usual.
When I turned onto our street, the white van was gone.
Lorraine’s porch light burned behind drawn curtains.
Mrs. Alvarez stood by my driveway holding a covered bowl.
She said I looked terrible and that nobody should have to cook after being assaulted.
I told her I would return the bowl tomorrow.
She was about to leave when she touched my arm.
The woman in the brown raincoat came by your house this morning, she said.
She asked me whether you still kept your garage side door unlatched.
I asked what the woman looked like.
Mrs. Alvarez said she had gray hair, a narrow face, and shoes with bright green laces.
Then she added that she had seen the same woman two weeks earlier carrying groceries into Lorraine’s back entrance.
I showed her a photograph of Isabel Wynn from a news report about her disappearance.
Mrs. Alvarez nodded once.
That’s her, she said.
The supposedly missing dispatcher had entered my garage an hour before Lorraine assaulted me.
