Chapter 8: What She Did While I Was at the Station
My neighbor Margaret knocked on my door that evening.
Margaret was seventy-one, sharp-eyed, and had lived next door since before Aaron was born.
She brought soup when my husband d*ed.
She had never once knocked without a reason.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
"I didn't want to call.
I wanted to say it to your face."
I let her in.
Carol was still there, washing up in the kitchen.
Margaret sat at the table and folded her hands.
"A woman came to the street this afternoon," she said.
"While you were out.
She walked up and down twice.
Slowly.
Looking at the houses."
My stomach dropped.
"I watched from my window," Margaret continued.
"She stopped in front of your house.
Took a photograph of it on her phone.
Then she walked back to her car and drove away."
"What did she look like?"
Margaret described her.
Blonde.
Mid-forties.
Large sunglasses.
A red bag.
Carol came to the kitchen doorway.
She had heard.
"That's her," I said.
"I thought it might be." Margaret's jaw was set.
"I wrote down her license plate."
She slid a folded piece of paper across the table.
I stared at it.
"Margaret."
"I watch the street," she said simply.
"I always have.
Your husband knew that.
Now you know it too."
I called Officer Tran immediately.
She asked me to photograph the plate number and send it through.
She said she would run it.
While I waited, Carol made tea.
Margaret stayed.
She didn't offer comfort or advice.
She just stayed, which was exactly right.
Officer Tran called back in forty minutes.
"The plate matches a vehicle registered to Renee Ashworth," she said.
"Combined with the voicemail and your neighbor's account, we have enough to bring her in for questioning.
The protective order application is already with the court.
I'm going to flag this as urgent."
"What does urgent mean?"
"It means a judge will look at it today, not next week."
After I hung up, Margaret stood and straightened her cardigan.
"Good," she said.
"That's how it should work."
She went home.
Carol sat across from me.
"She photographed your house," Carol said.
"I know."
"While your children were — Aaron was at school, Emma was with us — but she didn't know that."
"I know."
Carol wrapped both hands around her mug.
"This woman is not going to stop on her own."
"I know that too."
"The police are moving.
The court is moving.
You did everything right."
"I know." I looked at the plate number on the table.
Margaret's handwriting — neat, deliberate, the pen pressed firmly.
"I just want it to be over."
"It will be," Carol said.
"But not tonight."
She was right.
It wasn't over that night.
But at 11:47 p.m., my phone lit up with a message from Officer Tran.
*Protective order granted.
Effective immediately.
We'll be in touch in the morning.*
I read it three times.
Then I set the phone face-down on the nightstand, lay back, and looked at the ceiling.
In the next room, Emma made a small sound in her sleep.
Just a murmur.
May you like
Nothing wrong.
I closed my eyes.
