The locks were changed.
The alarm was armed.
The cameras were recording.
The registered letters had already gone out.
Soraya was on standby.
Elowen was watching the family chat.
And I was sitting on the screened porch in sweatpants, waiting like the heron.
At 11:46 a.m., the first car arrived.
Not my parents.
A black SUV with Ohio plates rolled into the driveway and
stopped near the front walk. Two men stepped out. Both were in their forties. Neither carried luggage. Neither looked confused. They looked like people who had been promised access.
One tried the front door.
It did not open.
He rang the bell.
I did not answer.
He rang again, longer.
Then he stepped back, pulled out his phone, and made a call.
Twenty seconds later, Keaton called me.
I sent it to voicemail.
The two men returned to the SUV, drove to the bottom of my driveway, and parked sideways across it.
