CHAPTER THREE: THE WRONG WOMAN
Miriam was taken to the hospital for observation after she complained of dizziness.
Before the ambulance doors closed, she called my name.
I stepped toward her, and the paramedic allowed us a moment.
Miriam’s voice was barely audible over the engine.
She said she had not wanted the fire to reach my house.
I asked why she had brought the container at all.
She looked past me toward Owen and pressed her lips together.
Then she said that he had promised the liquid would only leave a visible stain.
I asked what he had wanted her to stain.
She said my mailbox, because he believed it held something that belonged to him.
The paramedic closed the door before I could ask another question.
I watched the ambulance leave and turned toward Owen.
He was already speaking to a television reporter who had arrived without being called by anyone I knew.
He told the reporter that he had intervened in a dangerous incident involving a troubled resident.
I realized he was talking about me.
He said my professional history had created a climate of fear on the street.
He never mentioned that Miriam had carried the container.
I asked the reporter whether Owen had explained why he started recording before the fire began.
Owen answered for her.
He said he had noticed suspicious activity and acted responsibly.
I asked why he had not warned Miriam or called emergency services.
He said I was trying to distract everyone from the real issue.
The reporter lowered her microphone and asked what the real issue was.
Owen looked at the damaged mailbox and said the neighborhood deserved to know what I was hiding.
I went back inside without giving him the confrontation he wanted.
At my kitchen table, I opened the tracking page for the expected letter.
The page showed that the item was still at the regional sorting facility.
My mailbox had burned before the letter reached our street.
That made Miriam’s statement about an envelope inside it impossible.
Someone had either lied to her or expected a different delivery.
CHAPTER FOUR: A SECOND ADDRESS
I called my attorney, Vanessa Cho, and described the fire.
She told me to preserve my photographs and stop discussing the licensing appeal with neighbors.
I said I had already told the police about the letter.
Vanessa said that was appropriate, but Owen’s interest in the decision needed an explanation.
I told her that Miriam had claimed Owen believed the mailbox contained something belonging to him.
Vanessa was silent for several seconds.
Then she asked whether I had received any correspondence from the former rehabilitation center at my home address.
I said I had received nothing since moving.
She asked me to check the address printed on the last notice from the licensing board.
I found the scanned notice in my email.
My street address was correct, but the apartment number field contained the words REAR UNIT.
There was no rear unit at my house.
Vanessa asked me to forward the notice to her.
She explained that someone had submitted an address amendment during the appeal.
The amendment was unusual because it added a delivery instruction I had never requested.
I asked whether Owen could have made the change.
She said we needed the submission history before drawing conclusions.
That afternoon, I walked to the post office instead of waiting for another delivery.
A supervisor named Grace Bellamy confirmed that my address was being flagged for manual review because of conflicting delivery instructions.
She could not tell me who had submitted them without a formal request.
She could tell me that a second delivery attempt had been scheduled for Monday.
I asked whether the letter could be held for pickup.
Grace checked the available options and arranged a hold after verifying my identification.
I left with a receipt showing that no important letter would be placed in my damaged mailbox.
When I returned home, Owen was standing at the curb beside the charred post.
He asked whether the fire had frightened me enough to move.
I told him the firefighters had done their job.
He said the neighborhood would not forget what happened.
I said I doubted it would.
For the first time since I met him, he seemed unsure whether I was afraid.
