Every open door and window in this building is an invitation, and she's been issuing them freely.
"I need you to keep the doors locked," I tell her. "All of them. Even when you're working. The ground-floor windows stay latched, and the back porch door needs a secondary bolt, which I'll install before I leave."
"Before you leave. So you're staying for a while?"
That was supposed to be a statement, not a question. I was supposed to walk the perimeter, write the report, drive back. Simple job. But the property has more holes than a threat assessment can cover in a single visit, and the client —
The client just handed a stranger a cup of coffee in a house where someone left her threatening notes yesterday.
"I'll be here for the rest of the day," I say. "Possibly longer, depending on what the full assessment turns up."
"Well." She raises her mug, something warm and unguarded in her expression that I file under operational variable, unresolved. "Welcome to the Foxglove. The hot water's unreliable, the third step from the top sounds like it's crying, and the Wi-Fi works if you stand in the northeast corner of the kitchen and believe in it."
She heads back toward the kitchen, already talking to the light fixture from across the house — something about patience, how she hasn't forgotten about it.
I pull out my phone and call Vance.
"Assessment?"
"Threat level low-grade. Notes are concerning but unsophisticated. No escalation beyond proximity access, which could be opportunistic given the property layout."
"Sign off and come back."
I look at the front door, where the new deadbolt gleams against the old oak. Down the hall, Kari's talking to the coffee maker again.
"The property security is nonexistent," I tell him. "Every ground-floor access point is compromised. No alarm, no cameras, no exterior lighting. The client is sleeping in a room with an unsecured window over the porch roof."
Vance is quiet. "You want to stay."
"I want to complete a full assessment. A couple of days."
The cost-benefit analysis that runs behind everything he says. "Approved. Keep me updated."
He hangs up. I pocket the phone and take another sip.
From the kitchen, a crash. Then: "We're fine! Everything's fine. Gerald slipped."
The drill. She's talking about the drill.
I set the mug down, roll my shoulders, and head for the back porch door with the deadbolt kit.
The threat is manageable. The property is a disaster. And the client is going to be a problem.
Chapter 3
Kari
The neighborhood finds out about Liam before I've finished my first cup of coffee.
I'm on the porch in Margit's old rocking chair, barefoot, watching a cardinal fight its own reflection in the window of Nina's shop across the street, when Nina herself steps outside with a broom she has no intention of using. She sweeps exactly three strokes, eyes locked on the Foxglove's front door, then abandons the pretense entirely.
"Morning," she calls.
"Morning."
"Interesting evening?"
"A deadbolt got installed."
