CHAPTER TEN A — THE HOTEL CORRIDOR
The fire investigator asked to meet me at the station the day after the kitchen incident.
He wanted to clarify the timeline between the last time I had used the back door and the moment the alarm sounded.
I described returning from Mina’s house at nine, checking the latch, and going upstairs shortly after eleven.
He asked whether anybody else had a key.
“Only my mother and the contractor who replaced the front door,” I said.
“The contractor returned his temporary key.”
“Do you know whether he made a copy?”
“I don’t.”
The investigator explained that the forced latch did not prove how the device had entered the house.
He needed to compare physical findings with witness statements and the contractor’s access record.
I answered his questions and left without asking for a theory.
Outside the station, I found three missed calls from my mother’s rehabilitation center.
A staff member said my mother had tried to walk to the bathroom without assistance and had fallen.
She was being assessed at a hospital and was awake.
I drove there in a taxi because my truck was still at the tire shop.
My mother was sitting upright when I arrived, furious at herself and everyone else.
“They made me wear a yellow bracelet,” she said.
“It means they don’t trust me to stand up.”
“It means they want you to ask for help.”
“I have been asking for help for six months.”
Her voice broke on the last word.
I pulled a chair beside her bed.
“I know.”
She looked at the scrape on my wrist from the broken back gate.
“What happened to your hand?”
I had planned to tell her about the vandalism when she came home.
Instead, I told her everything in the hospital room while the evening meal cart rattled past the door.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she stared at the window.
“You bought that house for me,” she said.
“I bought it for us.”
“And now somebody is trying to make you afraid to live in it.”
“Yes.”
She turned toward me.
“Don’t turn my recovery into a reason to endure something dangerous.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me you’ll consider leaving if you need to.”
I hesitated.
“I’ll consider it.”
She reached for my hand.
“That’s all I can ask.”
I spent the night in a chair beside her bed.
For once, I did not check my phone for neighborhood updates.
CHAPTER TEN B — THE OPEN GATE
After the kitchen fire, I hired a locksmith to replace the back gate latch.
He was a quiet man named Marcus who tested every lock three times before declaring the job finished.
“This gate was forced,” he said.
“The old screws were pulled sideways.”
“Can you tell whether the latch was damaged before the fire?” I asked.
“Not from this.”
He showed me where the wood had split and suggested reinforcing the post rather than simply installing a heavier latch.
I agreed.
While he worked, my phone rang with a number I did not recognize.
A woman introduced herself as a representative of a neighborhood safety group.
She said she was collecting reports about properties that might present hazards to nearby children.
“Who authorized the survey?” I asked.
“It’s a volunteer effort.”
“Which organization?”
She hesitated before naming the Stewardship Circle.
I explained that emergency responders had already attended and that the city would assess any ongoing code concerns.
She asked whether I would consent to a volunteer inspection.
“No,” I said.
“You’re refusing to cooperate with a safety initiative?”
“I’m declining an inspection by people who have no inspection authority.”
The caller said she would note my response.
I wrote down the time and the number without calling back.
Marcus had heard only my side of the conversation.
“You sound like you spend your life answering strange questions,” he said.
“Lately I do.”
He tightened the final bolt and tested the gate again.
“There,” he said.
“Now the gate should close properly.”
I paid him and watched him drive away.
That evening, a group of children rode bicycles past my house.
One pointed at the repaired gate and told another that a dangerous fire had happened inside.
I walked to the sidewalk and asked whether they knew where the rumor had started.
The children exchanged uncertain glances.
“A grown-up said it at the playground,” one replied.
I told them the fire department had attended and that the house was being repaired.
I did not ask them to carry a different rumor in return.
They rode away, and I returned to the kitchen.
The smell of smoke had faded, but I still opened the windows before dinner.
