Five minutes later my office phone rang.
I let it go to voicemail.
The caller did not leave a message.
The next morning Brooks told me investigators had interviewed Travis and obtained permission to inspect part of the property.
She would not discuss what they found, but her voice sounded more focused than before.
I asked whether anyone had identified the person in the gray hood.
“We are following several leads,” she said.
“Please continue keeping your family safe.”
I wanted to ask whether that meant someone might return.
Instead I arranged for Ian to stay at the house through the weekend.
My brother was forty-five, a community college instructor with a gentle disposition that often concealed stubborn resolve.
He arrived carrying groceries, a toolkit, and a crossword book.
“You don’t have to make this place into a fortress,” he said, looking at the new lights.
“I know,” I answered.
“But I want every door to lock.”
We repaired the loose porch rail together and checked the basement windows.
Then Ian asked about my bookkeeping work.
I admitted that I had missed enough appointments to lose one client.
He offered to cover the next insurance deductible.
I refused at first, but he reminded me that family meant helping before someone was desperate.
I accepted a small loan and wrote the amount on an index card so we both knew what had been agreed.
There was nothing dramatic about that conversation.
It felt more important than most of the speeches Gwen had delivered in public.
Lena’s mother Sofia invited Maya and me to a community supper at St. Agnes Church.
The volunteers were raising money for home accessibility equipment that Lena’s insurance would not immediately cover.
I asked Maya whether she wanted to go, knowing a room full of sympathetic adults could be exhausting.
“I want to see Lena outside the hospital,” she said.
“Even if it’s only for an hour.”
Lena arrived in a wheelchair with a brightly colored scarf tied around the back.
She looked tired but pleased to be among people who talked about something other than her injuries.
A retired bus driver told a long story about a runaway shopping cart, and for the first time in weeks Maya laughed without watching herself.
At the serving table, a volunteer named Mrs. Alvarez recognized me from the neighborhood.
She asked whether Gwen was still organizing the winter donation drive.
I said I did not know.
