MASTER BEDROOM, it said, in Mark’s blocky handwriting.
Officer Hale looked at me. “Want me to call him to come get it?”
I thought about it.
“No,” I said. “Put it on the porch. He can arrange a pickup through my attorney.”
Officer Hale smiled for the first time all day. “Yes, ma’am.”
At the door, he paused.
“Can I tell you something, Ms. Whitaker?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve been doing this nine years. I get a lot of calls like this one. Exes. Family members. People who think they’re owed something.” He shook his head. “You know what usually happens? The homeowner shows up, and the other person starts talking, and the homeowner starts negotiating. ‘Okay, one more night.’ ‘Okay, a week.’ And then it’s a court case and it’s a mess for months.”
He looked at me.
“You didn’t negotiate. You didn’t argue. You just showed us the facts and let them stand. That made my job a whole lot easier.”
