…”your sister’s husband.”
I said that was impossible. Then I went back inside and watched the clips again, and this time I watched the way the man in the hoodie stood. Weight on his left leg. Hands in the front pocket. The same way Tom stood at the grill every Fourth of July, telling everyone the burgers needed “two more minutes.”
I sat on my kitchen floor until the sun came up. Then I called the police, because I couldn’t think of what else to do. The detective who came out was kind. She watched all thirty-one nights and asked me if I’d be willing to identify him. I said yes before I could change my mind.
The hardest call wasn’t to the police. It was to my sister, Rachel.
I drove to her house when I knew Tom was at work. I put my laptop on her kitchen table, and before I could even press play, she said, “Is it about the pictures?”
A month earlier, she’d found photos on his phone. My house, at night. My bedroom window. He’d told her he was “checking on me,” since I lived alone. She hadn’t believed him, and she hadn’t known what to do with it either.
We watched the clips together, holding hands. She didn’t cry until the one where he stood there for two hours.
Tom was charged with stalking. I have a protective order now, and so does Rachel, and she and the kids are living with me while the divorce goes through. My house is louder than it’s been in years.
I went over to thank my neighbor with a pie. He apologized again for waiting so long. I told him the truth: “You’re the only person who was watching my house for the right reason.” He has a new doorbell camera now. He says it’s pointed at my porch, too, just in case. For once, I don’t mind.
