The sergeant cleared his throat. “Mr. Whitaker, please stand up.”
They explained it to him plainly. He was being cited for criminal trespass. The lease would be investigated as a possible forgery. He and Vanessa were to remove all their belongings from the property today and stay away from it.
Mark stood slowly. Then he turned and looked directly at me.
I knew exactly what he was waiting for.
He was waiting for me to say, “Oh, they can stay one more night.” Or, “Let them have until Monday.” Or, “Let’s not make this worse than it has to be.”
He was waiting for me to fold.
I stood by my refrigerator with my arms at my sides, and I didn’t say a single word.
His face changed. The patience drained out of it. What was left was something small and mean and surprised.
“You’re really doing this?”
I met his eyes.
“You did this,” I said. “I’m just not stopping it.”
For the first time in twenty-seven years, Mark Whitaker had absolutely nothing to say.
It took them two and a half hours to load everything back onto the truck.
Officers Hale and Brandt stayed the whole time, watching every box go out. The recliner. The television. KITCHEN. BOOKS. MASTER BEDROOM.
After a while, the neighbors gave up pretending not to watch.
The older man with the golden retriever walked across the street carrying two folding lawn chairs, one under each arm.
“Thought you ladies might want somewhere to sit,” he said.
I looked up at him, startled. “Thank you.”
“I’m Walt. Gray house, right over there.” He set the chairs down on my lawn. “Saw you move in a couple weeks ago. Then I saw that truck this morning, and the fella punching in a code like he owned the place, and I thought, that’s not right. She came alone. She’s been alone every day.”
He scratched the dog’s ears.
“I called the police too. Ten minutes or so after the first car showed up. Figured it couldn’t hurt.”
I stared at him.
A stranger. A man I’d never spoken to. He had noticed something was wrong and tried to protect my home before I even got there.
“Thank you,” I said again. My voice cracked.
Walt smiled. “This is Biscuit. And welcome to the neighborhood, Diane.”
“How do you know my name?”
“Sandra Okafor told me before she moved. Said a nice lady named Diane was buying her house and I’d better keep an eye out.” He shrugged. “So I did.”
Rachel sat down in one of the lawn chairs and laughed softly. “Well, Di. You picked a good street.”
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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