"What happens to David now?"
"The district attorney will decide.
The recording is damning.
The toxicology report is documented.
The photographs show repeated entry.
It's not my place to predict, but Mr.
Sloan built this case carefully.
He wanted to make sure David couldn't hurt anyone else."
I nodded.
"And the house?"
"It's yours.
If you accept the condition."
"I accept."
Mr.
Higgins slid a document across the desk.
"Sign here."
I signed.
My hand was steady this time.
Three weeks later, I stood in Mr.
Sloan's kitchen.
The house was clean.
The lawyer had arranged for a service to clear it out.
Everything was gone except the window above the sink.
I looked out that window.
I could see my garden.
My roses.
The fence between our properties.
For three years, I had looked at that fence and felt anger.
Now I understood.
The man on the other side of that fence had been fighting a battle I didn't know about.
He had been watching David enter his home.
He had been feeling his own medication fail.
He had been gathering evidence because he knew no one would believe a sick old man.
And he had been watching me in my garden.
