to that first Friday morning, when I’d stood in the driveway staring at the black streaks and wondering who could possibly do such a thing.
I’d blamed teenagers.
I’d assumed it was random.
I’d accepted the explanation that seemed easiest because I couldn’t imagine a familiar face being responsible.
That had been the strangest part of the entire experience.
The person who had damaged our home wasn’t a stranger lurking somewhere in the dark.
She was the person who had stood beside me in daylight, expressed sympathy, and pretended to
