“That’s ridiculous,” Richard said. “We aren’t selling.”
“The caller also claimed their daughter and son-in-law would be moving in.”
Natalie stared at Terrence. “You told me you were checking the property taxes.”
“I was checking options,” he said.
“With a lender?” she asked.
He looked away.
The little tape measure lay at the bottom of the stairs. Natalie had carried it upstairs as if the room were already hers.
My mother’s remark replayed in my head: Natalie and Terrence need your old bedroom anyway.
I had assumed she meant they wanted a more comfortable place to stay for the holiday weekend.
On the screen, Terrence spoke quietly to David. “A preliminary conversation isn’t a crime.”
“No one said it was,” David replied. “But you represented the occupants as owners.”
“I said they had an interest in the house.”
“They have a lease.”
Richard turned toward him. “Why were you talking to lenders about my house?”
Terrence gave a short laugh. “Richard, I was trying to help.”
“You told me your investment account was temporarily locked.”
“It is.”
“You asked to use our address for mail.”
“It was convenient.”
Natalie moved down one step. “Terrence. Tell me what’s going on.”
He glanced at the deputies and then at the camera near the ceiling.
It was an ordinary security camera, installed after packages disappeared from the porch. I had paid for the system when my father complained about theft. Its small light had been blinking throughout Thanksgiving dinner.
“Can we have this conversation privately?” Terrence asked.
“Apparently not,” Natalie said.
For the first time that evening, her voice sounded nothing like the confident voice she used at dinner.
Richard’s cigar had burned down in his hand. He dropped it into a ceramic dish by the door without looking.
