hanging up, Patricia paused.
“Mrs. Marsh?”
“Yes?”
“The flowers. I’m sorry.”
She understood what they meant.
“Thank you, Patricia.”
Then I went outside with my camera.
I photographed everything.
Wide shots.
Close-ups.
The tire track.
The crushed plants.
The broken curve in the flower arrangement.
Then I compared them with photographs I had taken earlier in the summer.
Afterward, I added everything to the folder on my computer.
June 15.
Kyle’s motorcycle on the edge of the Nguyens’ lawn.
June 22.
Motorcycle blocking Mrs. Patterson’s driveway close to eleven at
