"Morning," Reggie said, because silence would only grow teeth.
"Morning." She hesitated. "Reggie—about the other evening. I feel foolish. I shouldn't have assumed."
"You saw what you saw," he said. "You asked a normal question. That's all."
Evelyn's eyes softened with a pity she tried to hide and failed. "If you ever need sugar or a casserole or a place to sit where nobody talks, you know where I am."
"Thank you."
Scout pulled gently toward home. Reggie followed. He appreciated Evelyn's offer and also knew he would not take it soon. Maple Court was small. Pity traveled faster than facts.
Thursday night, alone again, he scrolled through old photo albums on his phone until he found a video from Scout's first week in the house—Sondra laughing as the puppy tangled himself in a blanket, Reggie's voice off-camera saying, "We're going to be so bad at this," and Sondra answering, "Then we'll be bad at it together." He watched it twice. He did not cry. He set the phone face down and listened to the refrigerator hum like it was keeping time for a life that had not yet decided its next measure.
Friday morning the sky was low and gray. He made eggs. He burned them slightly. He ate them anyway.
At lunch he finally listened to a voicemail from Franklin Boyd. He had not given Franklin his number. Sondra must have, or Franklin had found it another way. The message was short.
"This is Franklin. I won't call again after this. I just needed to say I won't be around your street. And I'm sorry for the disrespect of using your house. That's on me as much as anyone. Take care of yourself."
Reggie deleted it. He did not reply. Deleting it felt like sweeping glass into a dustpan: necessary, incomplete, still sharp if you pressed wrong.
That night he dreamed he was back in the Oakridge model at 2 a.m., resetting a panel while rain hammered the fake shutters. In the dream Sondra called his name from a dark hallway that should not have existed in a model home. When he turned, Franklin was standing where a staged family photo hung, holding Scout's leash. Reggie woke with his hand already reaching for a dog who was still beside him, warm and real and snoring faintly.
He got up and drank water in the dark kitchen. Through the window Maple Court was all porch lights and stillness. He thought about the men he knew who would have driven to Route Nine. He thought about the version of himself that wanted the clean theater of confrontation. Then he thought about Scout needing to be walked in the morning, and Sondra's cousin Nia who had opened a door without demanding a full confession first, and Cheryl's paint-stained jeans, and the simple fact that tomorrow would arrive whether he punished anyone or not.
He went back to the couch. Sleep, when it came, was thin but no longer crowded with hallways.
***
Saturday he cleaned.