“This is our property now.”
“Caleb.”
She paddled toward the steps.
“Don’t be one of those people.”
“What people?”
“The kind who move into a friendly neighborhood and start building invisible walls.”
I pointed toward the six-foot wooden fence.
“The wall is actually very visible.”
She did not like that.
Sandra climbed out.
As she passed me, she picked up the plastic cup.
“You’ll get used to me.”
“I don’t need to get used to you entering our yard.”
She smiled.
“Relax.”
Then she left through the side gate.
That was the first time.
There were eleven more.
At least eleven that we knew about.
Sandra learned our schedules.
At first, I assumed coincidence.
She appeared when Amy worked late.
When I took Ellie to softball.
When we attended Jordan’s Saturday soccer games.
Sometimes she swam alone.
Twice she brought a friend.
Once she brought a portable speaker and left an empty drink cup beneath our patio table.
I confronted her repeatedly.
Every time, the same response.
“It’s just a pool.”
Or:
“I’m not hurting anything.”
Or my favorite:
“You can’t stop me from swimming.”
I changed the gate lock.
She found another way.
I changed the code.
She claimed the gate had been left open.
I added a chain.
She somehow knew where the spare key had been hidden by the former owners.
That was the day I lost patience.
I came home and found wet footprints from the pool to the gate.
Sandra was already back at her own house.
I walked over.
She answered the door wearing a robe over her swimsuit.
“Seriously?”
She smiled.
“About what?”
“You were in the pool.”
“Prove it.”
“You’re wearing a swimsuit.”
“People own swimsuits, Caleb.”
“You left your blue towel on my patio.”
Her smile faded slightly.
I held it up.
“This yours?”
Sandra shrugged.
“Maybe.”
“You need to stop.”
“I’m not damaging anything.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Well, it’s not your property.”
That was when she laughed.
“You really love saying that.”
“Because you really love pretending it isn’t true.”
Her expression hardened.
“Maybe if you weren’t so hostile, people would respect you more.”
I almost laughed.
“Respect me by not entering my backyard.”
She turned to close the door.
I said something I regretted later.
“One of these days I’m going to put harmless green dye in that water while you’re in it.”
Sandra looked back.
“What?”
“Temporary pool dye.”
“I’m going to turn you green enough that everyone sees you walking home.”
She smiled.
“You wouldn’t.”
“It would be safer than calling police every time.”
“You’d never do it.”
“Keep trespassing.”
She laughed.
Then closed the door.
I wish I could return to that moment and stop myself.
Not because the dye itself was dangerous.
It wasn’t.
Because once you announce a bad idea out loud, you create a path someone else can follow.
Amy hated the plan from the beginning.
I told her about the temporary dye two nights later.
She was folding laundry.
“No.”
“I haven’t even finished.”
“You said ‘dye Sandra green.’”
“Temporarily.”
“That doesn't improve it.”
“It’s a pool tracing product.”
“Call the police.”
“I don’t want criminal charges over a neighborhood argument.”
“Then send her a written trespass notice.”
“That seems extreme.”
Amy slowly put down one of Jordan’s shirts.
“Caleb.”
“Yes?”
“A woman has entered our locked backyard twelve times.”
“Possibly twelve.”
“That distinction is not helping you.”
“I just want her to understand we’re serious.”
Amy stared.
“Then be serious.”
“Don’t become twelve years old.”
That ended the conversation.
It should have ended the idea.
Instead, I bought the dye.
I put it in the pool shed.
Green sticker around the top so I could identify it quickly.
Then I did nothing.
For a week.
Sandra stayed away.
I almost forgot about it.
Then she appeared Friday evening while I was trimming the hedge.
She stood on the sidewalk.
“Still guarding Fort Knox?”
I ignored her.
She smiled.
“You know, you’re making yourself miserable over water.”
“It’s not about water.”
“Sure.”
“It’s about you entering without permission.”
She adjusted her sunglasses.
“What are you going to do?”
“Call the police next time.”
“No green dye?”
I stopped.
“How do you know about that?”
“You told me.”
Right.
I had.
Sandra smiled.
“Maybe I’ll wear green.”
Then she walked home.
From across the street, a man watched us.
I barely noticed him at the time.
Tall.
Late fifties.
Gray hair.
Dark pickup.
His name was Russell Shaw.
And by Sunday, his initials would be written on a bottle beside my swimming pool.
Russell was Sandra’s former brother-in-law.
Not her brother.
Not her boyfriend.
Her ex-husband’s older brother.
Sandra had been married to Patrick Collins for twenty-seven years.
Patrick ran a small commercial landscaping and maintenance company with Russell.
Three years earlier, Patrick died unexpectedly.
Sandra inherited part of Patrick’s ownership interest.
That made her and Russell business partners.
Bad ones.
The company, Collins-Shaw Property Services, handled landscaping, commercial pools, apartment complexes, and building maintenance.