in the breathless voice of a woman who had spent years confusing suspicion with civic
duty.
“There’s a woman on the porch at 18 Briar Glen Lane,” Marjorie said into her phone, her
eyes fixed on the figure down the street. “She looks completely out of place. The owners
just moved in, and I’m certain she isn’t one of them. She may be casing the house.”
The dispatcher, accustomed to all manner of calls, asked calmly if Marjorie had actually
witnessed a break-in or any property damage.
“No, but she’s just standing there,” Marjorie insisted, her tone dripping with unearned
authority. “Like she’s waiting for someone to leave so she can make a move. Please send
someone quickly. This neighborhood has standards, and we’ve been having concerns
lately.”
Concerns. That was the word people like Marjorie used when they wanted their baseless