I started photographing everything.
The block.
The marks on the porch.
The scratches along the walkway where something heavy appeared to have been dragged from the street.
When Callahan returned, he held the measuring tape while I photographed the distance between tire marks near the curb.
“You really think this deserves police involvement?” he asked.
I looked at him.
“Someone delivered my dead husband’s watch to my house inside a block of ice.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
Then I started knocking on doors.
By 7:30 that morning, half the neighborhood was awake.
Mrs. Duffy’s camera had been broken for months.
The Martins had blurry footage.
The Garzas let me search through their recordings, but the angle missed my driveway.
By the fifth house, I found what I needed.
A delivery truck approached with its headlights off.
Two people climbed out.
They used a dolly to move something large onto my porch.
