I filmed the logo on the door.
“Are you recording me?” Her voice climbed higher. “Put that down!”
“Say it again,” I said quietly.
“Say what?”
“What you told me. About the peace and quiet. Say it to the camera.”
“Put that down!”
She hesitated.
In her hesitation I saw the first flicker of something she had never shown me before.
Doubt.
“You crossed through my gate,” I went on. “You brought your husband’s company truck onto my property. You poured concrete into a pool that my husband built with his own hands before he died.”
“Don’t you dare make this about your husband,” she hissed.
“You crossed through my gate,”
“It has always been about my husband,” I said. “You just never bothered to ask.”
I lowered the phone and looked at the ruined water, thick and gray and still.
My throat tightened, but I did not let her see it.
