Page 14 of Her Reluctant Protector
When I come back, she's up on a step stool pulling insulation out of the wall cavity, talking to it.
"You have been in there since what — the seventies? Longer? You've earned your retirement, Harold. Don't fight me on this."
Harold is the insulation.
I hold the trash bag open while she fills it. This is not in my operational scope. Holding trash bags while a client narrates the emotional journey of fiberglass batting is not a service HPG offers.
"The good news," Kari says, stepping down and pushing her goggles up further, "is that the wiring behind this wall is newer than I expected."
"That is good news."
"The bad news is that I found a bird's nest in the wall cavity. Not recent. But still."
"Noted."
"I named the bird Edgar."
"Of course you did."
She grins at me. Drywall dust on her cheekbone, goggles askew, flannel hanging off one shoulder. Something behind my sternum recalibrates without permission.
I pick up the pry bar and start on the next section.
By afternoon, I've pulled more drywall than I care to quantify, re-seated three cabinet doors, and located a draft in the hallway — a gap in the baseboard wide enough to see daylight through. Patched it with caulk from Kari's supply shelf, which is organized by what she calls "vibes" rather than any system a reasonable person would recognize.
The sticky drawer operates smoothly now. She hasn't noticed. I don't mention it.
The stalker thread runs under everything like a second operating system. While Kari strips wallpaper in the front hall — narrating its removal to the wallpaper itself, which she has named Millicent — I run searches on my phone. Block capitals, deliberate and even, the kind of lettering that strips out anything identifiable. Cheap notebook paper from any dollar store. No forensic value. The local department isn't going to prioritize what they'd classify as low-level harassment.
But it's not low-level. The second note appeared inside an unsecured building while the occupant was present. That's not a warning. That's a demonstration.
Someone is proving they have access.
I call Vance from the back porch while Kari runs the power sander upstairs — Patricia, who apparently has "strong opinions about wood grain."
"Pattern's consistent with someone local," I tell him. "Familiar with the property, familiar with her schedule. Both notes placed during windows when she was distracted or absent."
"Contractors? Previous owner?"
"Running those down. She's doing most of the work herself."
"Of course she is."
"The property sat empty for three years. No alarm, no caretaker. Anyone could have walked through a hundred times and learned every room, every entry point, every blind spot."
"Cover story holding?"
I hesitate a beat too long. Vance, who reads silence like a polygraph, says nothing. Which is worse.
"It's holding," I say.
"Good. Stay on it."
He hangs up. I stand on the back porch watching the alley, running patterns. The alley is quiet. My pulse isn't, but that has nothing to do with the alley.
Night comes fast. One minute the street has the warm amber wash of late sun. The next, it's blue-dark and quiet, and the inn settles into its particular arrangement of creaks and sighs.
Kari finds me in the parlor, wedged into the wingback with my laptop, and stops in the doorway.
