"No, just that they didn't recognize you and weren't sure you lived here."
She nodded slowly. "So someone saw a black woman at the pool and assumed I was breaking in."
Braxton cleared his throat. "We don't know who made the call, but you showed up. Guns on hips, ready to interrogate me."
Neither of them responded.
Across the courtyard, a glass door slid open. A voice, sharp, female, and familiar, called out from a third-floor balcony.
"She lives here."
All three turned. A woman in a yellow tank top leaned over her railing, her phone in hand. "That's Belle Johnson. She moved in two months ago. I've seen her walk her dog every morning at 7:00. She's here all the time."
Belle recognized her. Marcy Vel lived in 310. They weren't close, but they'd shared polite nods in the mail room, traded stories about parking issues. Marcy's voice didn't waver. "You should be asking who called this in. Not bothering her."