"Huh," said Aranda.
Up on the second floor, a light came on behind the pebbled glass. I saw a shape move in it, a blur of pale blue, which was Debra's blouse, and then a blur of navy, which was Hendricks. They stood at the window for maybe half a minute. Then the navy shape moved away from the glass and was gone.
It was gone a long time. Long enough that Aranda noticed it too. He put his glasses back on and turned and looked up at the window, and his hand went, not to his gun or anything dramatic like that, but to the radio on his shoulder, resting there, waiting.
When the radio finally spoke it was Hendricks's voice, very calm. She said, "Corporal, can you come to the front door, please?" And then, a beat later, in a different voice: "Mrs. Pelletier, I'm going to need you to come downstairs with me now."
Aranda went. I didn't go. He told me to stay where I was and I stayed there, in my side yard, on my side of the line, looking at the empty bracket under my eave. I heard the Pelletiers' front door open. I heard voices, low. And then I heard Debra's voice rising over theirs, high and fast and wrong, a voice I had heard come out of her only once before, that January night when Vern was missing and she opened her door in her bathrobe.
"Those are returns," she was saying. "Those are returns. I process returns, it's a job, I'm an independent contractor, I have a W-9, I can show you the W-9—"
I walked to the front corner of my garage. From there I could see her front door, wide open, and the three of them in the entryway. Debra had her back against the banister of her staircase, both hands gripping the rail behind her. Hendricks was in front of her, not touching her, one palm out and down, the way you'd calm a horse.
"Ma'am, I just need you to take a breath."