"They both were," I said. "Dash, too. He could have told me anytime. He could have used it to get out of trouble on Thursday night. He didn't, because he'd promised her."
She turned and looked at me then, among the drying racks, and I saw that her eyes were wet, and that she was absolutely refusing to let anything happen about it.
"I watched that footage forty times," she said. "Forty. I paused it on his face. I printed a still. I was going to bring it to the sheriff's substation on Monday. I'd already written the email to the board. Last night. Requesting authority to pursue enforcement action against your household for a pattern of trespass." She pressed her lips together. "I sent it at 11:58 p.m. Ermengarde Quarrington replied at 12:04. She said she had concerns. Ermengarde Quarrington has never had concerns at midnight in her life. She has been waiting for me to make a mistake like this for two years. And I made it. In writing. On letterhead."
"Then un-make it," I said. "In writing. On letterhead."
She laughed again, but this one had a floor under it. Barely.
Upstairs, through the little basement window that sat at ground level, I could see the backyard, and the cedar fence, Weathered Pewter, and the hydrangea from my side poking over the top of it. Hesper and Dashiell were sitting on the edge of the Vandersloots' patio with their knees almost touching, not quite. She was showing him something on a piece of paper. He was laughing. Ottoline followed my gaze and watched them, too, and for a long time neither of us said anything at all.
"She chose him when she was five," Ottoline said finally. "Do you remember? With the ball. Every day that summer. I used to stand at the kitchen window and watch her throw it back."
"I remember."