Water on Hawthorne Lane
et out of this neighborhood.”
Susan Whitmore said it loudly enough for the houses
on both sides of Hawthorne Lane to hear. Then she
raised the garden hose and blasted Marcus Reed across the chest.
The water struck him with enough force to make his gray Tshirt cling instantly to his skin. For a second, Marcus did not
move. Water ran from his shoulders, down his arms, into the
cuffs of his worn brown work boots, and across the polished
concrete driveway of 814 Hawthorne Lane.
The hose sagged partly from Susan’s hands, but she kept hold
of the brass nozzle. Her platinum-blond hair remained perfectly
arranged. Her white tennis skirt remained almost completely dry.
Her expression, however, had changed. The anger was still there,
but now something else had appeared.
Fear—or, more accurately, the performance of fear.
Susan pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed 911.
Marcus watched her. He did not shout, threaten her, or ask
why. After twenty-eight years in law enforcement, he knew that
some situations became more dangerous when emotions were
allowed to take control. He had seen arguments become assaults,
insults become shootings, and innocent people make one furious
movement and spend years wishing they could take it back.
G ET O U T O F T H IS N EI G H B O R H O O D
5
So he kept his hands open at his sides, visible and still.
“What’s your emergency?” the dispatcher asked through the
speaker.
Susan looked directly at Marcus. “There’s a man at my
neighbor’s house.”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“My neighbor’s house,” Susan continued. “He’s acting
aggressively.”
Marcus almost laughed. Almost. He did not.
“He’s soaking wet,” she said. “He was yelling at me.”
Marcus had said three words to her: This is mine. None had
been yelled.
“Ma’am,” the dispatcher asked, “is anyone injured?”
“No, but I don’t know what he’s capable of.”
Marcus looked toward his truck. His old dark-blue Ford F-150
sat near the garage. Inside, beneath the passenger seat, was a
small leather case containing the deed, settlement papers, and
two sets of keys. He had meant to carry it indoors after finishing
the loose hinge on the garage cabinet.
Susan noticed him looking. “There,” she said. “He keeps
reaching toward his vehicle.”
“I am not reaching for anything,” Marcus said calmly.
Susan stepped backward. “Don’t talk to me.”
“I am speaking so the dispatcher can hear me.”
She raised her voice. “He’s confronting me now!”
Marcus took one slow breath.
The neighborhood had gone silent. Hawthorne Lane belonged
to Cedar Ridge, one of those Maryland neighborhoods where
brick colonials sat behind carefully trimmed hedges, lawns were
edged so cleanly they looked artificial, and residents had opinions
about everything from trash cans to mailbox colors. People
G ET O U T O F T H IS N EI G H B O R H O O D
6
noticed who moved in, who moved out, whose grass was too tall,
whose children played too loudly, who parked on the street—and,
apparently, who belonged.
Marcus had moved into 814 only three days earlier. He had
spent twenty-eight years in law enforcement: six years in patrol,
eight as a detective, and fourteen supervising investigations. He
had retired six months ago. The house was supposed to be his
new beginning, his first home after years of renting. A quiet place
where he could read on the porch, restore old furniture in the
garage, and finally live without a radio clipped to his shoulder.
Instead, he stood in his driveway while a neighbor who had
never introduced herself sprayed him with a hose and
summoned the police.
Three cruisers turned onto Hawthorne Lane. Red and blue
lights reflected across the wet pavement. Susan’s shoulders
relaxed. She smiled.
Marcus noticed. He also noticed the first officer’s face when he
stepped out.
The officer looked at Marcus, then Susan, then the house.
Recognition moved across his expression.
“Mr. Reed?”
Marcus nodded. “Officer Daniels.”
Daniels stared another second, then looked toward Susan. “You
said the suspect might be armed?”
“I don’t know what he has,” Susan replied.
Daniels looked at Marcus’s open hands, then at the truck, then
back at Susan. “Do you know who Mr. Reed is?”
“No.”
“You don’t?”
She shook her head.
“Ma’am, this is Detective Marcus Reed.”
G ET O U T O F T H IS N EI G H B O R H O O D
7
Susan blinked. “Detective?”
“Retired. He spent twenty-eight years with this department.”
A second officer approached and looked at Marcus. “Captain
Reed?”
“Not anymore,” Marcus said.
The officer smiled faintly. “Still feels strange calling you
anything else.”
The hose in Susan’s hand stopped looking like a tool and
started looking like evidence.
Marcus spoke before familiarity could turn into favoritism.
“I’m not looking for special treatment. I’m asking you to handle
the call by procedure.”