Celeste stepped around the passenger door.
She looked at the garden.
Then at Harrison.
“That flower bed is twice the size of our old one.”
Harrison laughed.
“We haven't even unlocked the front door.”
“I know.”
She smiled.
“I'm planning ahead.”
That was Celeste.
She was an interior designer who saw the world in colors, textures, and possibilities.
She could walk into an empty room and immediately imagine what it could become.
Harrison was different.
He was more cautious.
More observant.
After twenty-six years in law enforcement, he had learned that beautiful neighborhoods could still hide ugly things.
He grabbed a box from the truck.
Across the street, behind cream-colored curtains, Donna Prescott was watching.
She had been watching since the moment the truck arrived.
She picked up her phone.
“Margaret?”
Her neighbor answered.
“There's a situation next door.”
“What kind?”
Donna looked through the window.
“The Whites sold their house.”
“And?”
Donna hesitated.
“The new owners aren't exactly what you'd expect on this street.”
She didn't say the word.
She didn't have to.
Margaret understood.
Twenty minutes later, Donna crossed her lawn.
She stopped exactly at the property line.
“I see you're settling in.”
Harrison put down the box.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“You purchased the property?”
“We did.”
“Outright?”
“Yes.”
Donna stared past him.
She examined the inside of the house.
The furniture.
The boxes.
Celeste.
Then she turned around and walked away.
Celeste watched her go.
“What was that?”
Harrison looked at the woman's house.
“Neighbors.”
But something in his voice told Celeste he didn't believe that was all it was.