Chapter 6: The Photograph
Ray had taken it two years ago.
He hadn't known why he'd taken it at the time.
He'd been standing at his kitchen window early one morning and seen Greg in the narrow alley between their two properties, crouched near the base of the fence.
He'd taken the photo the way you take a photo of something that feels wrong before you've worked out why.
The image was clear enough.
Greg, in a gray sweatshirt, pressing something into the ground near the fence post.
Ray had texted with it: *I looked this up after today.
I think he was tampering with my drainage pipe.
I've had water in my basement every spring for two years.
Three plumbers couldn't explain it.*
Tom set the phone down on the table between us.
"That's not a nuisance complaint," he said.
"That's property damage."
I picked up my pen and opened the notebook to a fresh page.
The next morning, I called Donna Fitch before eight.
"I need to add something," I said, and told her about the photograph.
She was quiet for a moment that felt longer than it was.
"Ray still has the original on his phone?
Unedited, with the original timestamp?"
"He says yes."
"Tell him not to delete anything.
Not to forward it to anyone except me, directly." Her voice had shifted — still calm, but with a different quality underneath it.
"Linda, this changes the scope significantly.
Deliberate interference with a neighbor's drainage infrastructure is not a civil nuisance matter.
Depending on the extent of the damage, it could be criminal."
"Criminal."
"Potentially.
I want to be careful about overpromising.
But if the pipe damage can be connected to what's in that photograph, and if Ray is willing to make a formal statement, Greg is looking at something considerably more serious than a county fine."
I told her about Patricia.
About the four households.
About the nine years.
Another silence.
"I need you to do something for me today," Donna said.
"I need you to write down, as clearly and completely as you can, every incident you personally witnessed or experienced.
Not what others told you.
What you saw.
What you heard.
What you documented.
Dates, times, your photographs, the tags, the county report number." A pause.
"Can you do that?"
"I already have most of it."
"Of course you do." There was something in her voice that might have been a smile.
"I'll clear my afternoon.
Can you come in at two?"
Greg appeared at my front door at ten-fifteen.
He didn't knock the way he had the day before — frantic, pounding.
He rang the bell once and stood back, hands in his jacket pockets.
When I opened the door, he looked like a man who had rehearsed something.
"I want to talk," he said.
"All right."
"Not like this.
Can I come in?"
"No."
His jaw moved.
He reset.
"Fine.
I want to apologize.
About yesterday.
I was stressed about the party and I took it out on you and that wasn't fair."
"Okay."
"And I want to talk about the report.
I think we can handle this between ourselves without involving the county any further.
Neighbor to neighbor."
"The report has already been filed."
"Reports can be withdrawn."
"I'm not going to withdraw it."
The rehearsed quality dropped slightly.
"Linda.
I'm trying to be reasonable here."
"You told me yesterday that you've been doing this longer than I have and that I'd find out what that means.
That's not an apology.
That's a warning."
"I was angry.
I didn't mean—"
"You also told me you have connections at the county office."
His eyes shifted.
Just slightly.
Just for a moment.
"I was venting," he said.
"Were you."
He looked at me for a long moment.
The apology was gone now, fully.
What was underneath it was what I'd seen the day before — something flat and calculating.
"You're making a mistake," he said quietly.
"I'm giving you a chance to stop this before it gets complicated."
"I appreciate that," I said.
"I'll see you around, Greg."
I closed the door.
Through the front window, I watched him stand on my porch for a moment.
Then he turned and walked back across the lawn.
May you like
He took his phone out before he'd reached his own door.
I went to get my notebook.
