“My grandma did. She passed and left me her home.”
The officer looked incredibly stern after that. “Did you deliver a letter to the woman across the street?”
My mouth went dry. “Yes. It was sealed.”
“Well, she called 911. She says it had documents and a flash drive. She reported it as threatening.”
“A flash drive? I didn’t put anything in it, officer. It’s just one of the letters I was asked to deliver.”
Dates ran down the page.
I could tell he was debating whether I was telling the truth. “Don’t deliver any more letters until a detective speaks with you,” he said. “Do you understand?”
I nodded too fast and went inside. The dresser drawer looked innocent, but my skin prickled near it. After a long breath, I opened Don’s envelope.
Inside was a clipped stack of papers and a USB drive in a plastic bag. The top page read, in Grandma’s handwriting, “Timeline of incidents.” Dates ran down the page, meticulously taken down.
The next envelope held what looked like a forged petition.
I flipped through and felt sick. Copies of complaint reports. Screenshots of neighborhood messages. Photos of our yard from angles that meant someone had been inside the fence.
I opened Lydia’s envelope next.
