“Why?”
“Because I want to know what they do when they think I’m not here.”
We parked two blocks away.
Dad called the police non-emergency line.
He did not tell them his daughter was stealing from him.
He simply explained that people were attempting to enter his home after falsely reporting his death.
The dispatcher asked whether he believed anyone inside was armed.
Dad said he did not know.
Then we waited.
Seven minutes later, a patrol car turned onto the street without lights.
Dad and I walked back toward the house.
Vanessa was standing on the front porch arguing with a locksmith.
Grant was beside the garage.
A man with a clipboard stood near Dad’s truck.
The evaluator.
They really had invited someone to appraise it.
Vanessa saw Dad first.
The color drained from her face.
Grant turned next.
The clipboard man looked from Dad to the truck and slowly lowered his pen.
