Jared’s envelope had a hand-drawn map of the side path between our fences. Arrows showed where someone could step without triggering the old porch light. In the margin, she wrote, “They think I’m stupid. I’m not.”
Marnie’s envelope began with one sentence: “If anything happens to me, this is why.” My hands shook hard enough to rattle the paper. I called the number the officer gave me and said, “There are more letters, and they’re evidence.”
Detective Rios arrived and sat at Grandma’s kitchen table, eyes sharp and tired. “Start from the beginning,” she said. When I told her about delivering Keller’s envelope, she didn’t scold me, but her jaw set.
That night I heard a scrape near the side gate.
“Your grandmother documented a pattern,” Rios said, tapping the timeline. “Some dates match prior calls. Some were dismissed as neighbor disputes.”
“So she tried to report it, and nobody listened?”
Rios met my eyes. “Without proof, people minimize. We need proof to do anything.” She pointed at the remaining envelopes. “You don’t deliver anything else. You don’t confront anyone alone.”
That night I heard a scrape near the side gate. When I checked, it was open and swaying gently.
***
The next morning, my trash bin sat crooked, its lid half-raised, with a bag I didn’t recognize resting on top.
“Your grandmother was upset near the end.”
I called Rios. “I think they know,” I said.
“Stay inside. Don’t touch anything. I’m sending someone.”
That afternoon, Mrs. Keller appeared on my porch with Don and Lydia by her side. Don’s eyes slid past me into the house.
Lydia smiled. “We wanted to offer condolences.”
“We heard about letters,” Don said. “Your grandmother was upset near the end.”
Keller leaned in. “We don’t want misunderstandings spreading. Show us what she wrote, and we can move on.”
I kept my hand on the screen door. “No.”
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