Finally, he answered.
“Because she wants me angry.”
Celeste frowned.
“She wants me to give her a story,” he continued. “The angry Black man. The threatening neighbor. The dangerous family.”
He leaned forward.
“I'm not giving her that story.”
The calls continued.
Call five.
Call six.
Call seven.
A backyard barbecue became a “fire hazard.”
Call eight.
Taking out the trash became suspicious behavior.
Call nine.
Mowing the lawn became “surveillance.”
Nine calls in four weeks.
Nine accusations.
Nine investigations.
Zero violations.
But Harrison wasn't simply enduring them.
He was documenting everything.
The Line She Crossed
Call number ten came on a Thursday morning.
Celeste had a major commercial delivery.
She carried fabric samples and material boards toward her car.
Donna was waiting.
“Where are you going with all that?”
Celeste stopped.
“I have a professional delivery.”
“This is a residential neighborhood.”
“This is my home.”
Donna stepped closer.
“I've seen your kind come through subdivisions like this before.”
Celeste's expression hardened.
“My kind?”
Donna smiled.
“Don't pretend you don't understand.”
Celeste tried to walk around her.
Donna grabbed her arm.
Hard.
“I'm not finished talking to you!”
Celeste stumbled.
Her bag fell.
Fabric spilled across the walkway.
Blue velvet.
White linen.
Material boards.
Everything scattered across the grass.
Celeste ripped her arm free.
“Do not touch me!”
Donna's face remained cold.
“You don't own this street.”