"Something’s wrong with it," she said.
I checked the latch. Nothing was broken, but I installed a simple clip. Two days later, the clip disappeared.
Then a pile of old branches appeared beside our shed. Not enough to matter—maybe six or seven. They looked like storm debris. Except we had not had a storm.
"You think she threw them over?" Rebecca asked, pointing toward Margaret’s maple tree.
"No," I replied. "Because even Margaret isn't going to sneak into our yard carrying branches."
That sentence aged badly.
Next came the newspapers. We did not subscribe to a newspaper. Yet three old copies of the Dayton Daily Record appeared near our back steps over the course of a week. Not the front porch. The backyard. One was nine days old. I threw them away.
Then our patio light stopped working. The bulb was fine; someone had loosened it. I tightened it. Two nights later, it was loose again. That was when I installed a small security camera beneath the garage eave. It covered the patio, side gate, shed, and clothesline. I did not tell Margaret. The camera was on my property. It showed only my yard.
For almost two weeks, nothing happened. Life got busy. My mother had recently undergone hip surgery forty minutes away. Rebecca and I took turns visiting, and sometimes I stayed overnight if she needed help. Most of the street knew.
One Tuesday, Margaret stopped Rebecca near the mailbox.
"Eric away again?" Margaret asked.
"Helping his mother," Rebecca nodded.
"How many nights is he staying there now?"
Rebecca later told me the question felt strange, but she answered anyway. "Usually one or two."