Surveillance Notes

I’d been watching the Hawthorne place for three evenings before this moment lined itself up. Becky stood easy on her side of the fence, relaxed in a way married women usually aren’t when company drops by unannounced. The neighbor leaned in from the other side, elbows resting on the pickets like he belonged there. Like he’d done this before. Plenty of times. Then there was the kid. Brent looked up at the neighbor with the kind of familiarity you don’t teach. Same eyes. Same tilt of the head. Same crooked half-smile that shows up when a man thinks he’s being charming instead of careful. I’d seen Elias Hawthorne’s photo—good man, square jaw, straight lines. None of that showed up in the boy. Becky noticed me watching. Just for a second. Her smile tightened, then loosened again, practiced and smooth. The neighbor laughed at something she said, hand drifting a little too close to the fence post between them. Territorial, maybe. Or nostalgic. Nobody crossed the line. Not physically. But lines don’t always need crossing to leave footprints. The fence stayed standing. The conversation stayed polite. The kid stayed between them like an unanswered question.