I stood in the doorway for a moment.
Mark came up behind me.
“No,” he said.
“Yes.”
He stared at it. Then at me.
“Is she genuinely—”
“I think,” I said, “she decided we wouldn’t do it twice.”
I took one photograph. Not twenty-two. One, timestamped, added to the existing case file.
Then I made the call.
This time the enforcement officer who arrived was the same one from the previous week.
He recognized the address. He may have recognized the car. His expression when he got out of his vehicle was the professionally neutral expression of a man who has seen this particular situation before and knows how it ends.
Ezoic
Denise came outside fully dressed.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said.
“Morning,” the officer said.
“This is persecution.”
“This,” he said, looking at his device, “appears to be the same driveway access point as the previous complaint.”
