He stepped around the edge of the fallen grill, but the neighbor shifted with him, keeping his body between us.
Ivan stopped.
“You’re confused,” he told the guests. “She pulled away while I was trying to move her from the heat.”
It was an absurd explanation, but he delivered it with the confidence of a man accustomed to being believed.
A year earlier, I might have questioned my own memory before he finished speaking.
That afternoon, I simply lifted my eyes toward the security camera mounted above the back door.
Ivan followed my gaze.
His face changed.
The camera covered the grill, the patio, and every chair occupied by his business partners.
It had been installed after equipment disappeared from the yard months earlier, and Ivan had barely paid attention when I arranged the account.
He knew the angle.
He knew what it had captured.
His hand around my wrist.
