CHAPTER THREE — THE HOUSE AT NUMBER SIX

The following morning, a woman named Mina Calder arrived with a tray of cinnamon rolls.
She lived at number six and worked nights as an emergency department receptionist.
She was exhausted, direct, and visibly angry when she saw the damaged porch.
“Patricia did this,” she said.
“Did you see her?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then we need to be careful about what we say.”
Mina set down the tray.
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“I’m not.”
“You sound worse.”
She pointed to the yellow note I had placed in a clear sleeve.
“My sister got one of those when she rented here.”
“What happened?”
“She moved.”
Mina took a breath and sat on the bottom step.
“Patricia has a way of making people feel that every problem is their fault.

”
She told me about a family whose moving van had been blocked by a neighborhood welcome committee, a tenant whose recycling bins were repeatedly overturned, and a school custodian who had been accused of stealing garden tools because he parked his truck on the street.
None of those incidents had ended with a clear answer.
Each had ended with somebody deciding that staying was more trouble than leaving.
“Why doesn’t anybody confront her?” I asked.
Mina stared at the street.
“Because she doesn’t do everything herself.”
She told me Patricia ran a volunteer organization called the Bellwether Neighborhood Stewardship Circle.
The group had no legal authority over homes, but it organized seasonal events, coordinated yard work for older residents, and controlled access to a privately donated community workshop.
Patricia used that influence to decide who was invited,

who was recommended for odd jobs, and who was quietly left out.
“People need the workshop,” Mina said.
“Especially the young people.”
“What young people?”
Mina looked at me more closely.
“There are four houses nearby where young adults live while they finish training.”
“Transition housing?”
“Something like that.”
I kept my expression neutral.
The placement program was familiar, but I had never seen Bellwether Lane listed among its approved locations.
“Who runs those houses?” I asked.
“A company called Northbridge Pathways.”
The name struck like a dropped glass.
Northbridge Pathways was a contractor under review by my office.
Its director had recently insisted that every placement was voluntary, that residents could leave freely, and that neighborhood volunteers had no say in who qualified for housing.
I had believed the last statement because it seemed too absurd to be false.
Mina watched my face change.
“You know them,” she said.
“I know the name.”
“Then you should know something else.”
She leaned toward me.
“Patricia decides which of their residents get to use the workshop.”

CHAPTER THREE A — THE FIRST RESIDENT