Clem came out in her pajamas and stood in the door of the garage with a bowl of cereal.
"What are you doing?"
"Thinking."
She looked at the panel, and at the quart of red, and at me.
"Dad," she said. "No."
"I haven't done anything."
"You're about to. I can tell. You've got your quiet hands." She took a bite of cereal and talked around it. "If you paint something on a sign about her, then it's about you and her. It's not about Archie anymore. And it's not about the rules. It's just two grownups. Everybody will just watch two grownups."
"She called you a drug dealer in front of the whole neighborhood. Twice. She put it in an email."
"I know. I read it." She shrugged, a fourteen-year-old shrug, one shoulder. "Mrs. Prosser has the footage, and the policeman has the footage, and the 911 people have her phone call where she read the label out loud. Everybody's going to see it anyway. You don't have to make it bigger. It's already big."