She looked at Nathan.
“What did she do?”
He stared.
“How did you know this involves Loretta?”
“Because nobody looks like that about landscaping.”
Nathan held out the phone.
Miriam watched the recording.
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
“Unbelievable.”
“You've seen her here?”
Miriam looked up sharply.
“What do you mean?”
“When I'm gone.”
She thought.
“Oh.”
Nathan’s stomach tightened.
“What?”
“I've seen her car.”
“How many times?”
Miriam walked into the kitchen.
Nathan followed.
“At least four.”
“Maybe five.”
“Here?”
“Parked near your driveway.”
“When?”
“When you're traveling.”
“I assumed she was doing inspections.”
“Why?”
“Because Loretta likes inspections.”
Nathan leaned against the counter.
“Did you actually see her inside?”
“Once.”
Miriam’s face changed as memory reorganized itself.
“I saw her coming out of your side gate.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“I was watering the front pots.”
“She waved.”
“What did she say?”
“That you were aware.”
Nathan stared.
“She said I was aware.”
“Yes.”
“Exact words?”
Miriam thought.
“I said, ‘Nathan out of town?’”
“She said, ‘Yes, but he knows I’m checking something.’”
Nathan felt anger settle into something cleaner.
Useful.
“Would you write that down?”
Miriam did not hesitate.
“Yes.”
Nathan said:
“Only exactly what you remember.”
“No assumptions.”
Miriam gave him the teacher look.
“I understand how statements work.”
Ten minutes later she returned with one handwritten page.
Date.
Approximate time.
Her observation.
Loretta’s words.
Signature.
Nathan photographed it.
Then asked her to keep the original.
He spent the next two weeks appearing to do nothing.
That required more discipline than confronting Loretta would have.
Monday he went to work.
Tuesday he flew to Reno.
Wednesday he returned.
Thursday he grocery shopped.
Friday he waved when Loretta drove past in her Lexus SUV.
She waved back.
Friendly.
Nathan almost admired the confidence.
The second recorded visit happened November 8.
Loretta arrived at 12:36.
Stayed fifty-eight minutes.
The third happened five days later.
The fourth on a Monday.
The fifth the following Saturday.
Different towels.
Different swimsuits.
Same deliberate routine.
She never checked the shared pool.
Never carried anything suggesting an official inspection.
On visit four, she opened Nathan’s outdoor refrigerator.
Removed a bottle of sparkling water.
Drank it.
Left the empty bottle in his recycling bin.
Nathan added it to the log.
He did not touch the bottle until wearing gloves.
Then felt ridiculous.
This was not murder evidence.
Still, the principle mattered.
He photographed it.
His annoyance slowly became curiosity.
Why his pool?