Marcus kept one hand resting against the cardboard box in the truck bed.
"I'm sorry?"
Susan Whitmore pointed toward the old Ford.
"I said you need to move that vehicle."
Marcus glanced at the truck.
Then at the concrete beneath his boots.
"Move it where?"
"Off this property."
Marcus studied her for a moment.
She stood barely 6 feet away in spotless white clothes, sunglasses covering her eyes, one silver bracelet flashing whenever she moved her hand.
There had been no introduction.
No welcome.
Not even a name.
Marcus remained polite.
"This is my driveway, ma'am."
Susan pulled her sunglasses down just far enough to look over them.
"Your driveway?"
"Yes."
A dry laugh escaped her.
She looked from Marcus to the Ford and then toward the house as though the three things could not possibly belong in the same picture.
"Who hired you?"
"Nobody."
"Then why are you here?"
"I'm moving in."
Susan stopped smiling.
Marcus lifted the box.
"Excuse me."
She stepped partly into his path.
"Moving in where?"
Marcus looked toward the brick house directly behind her.
"Here."
For several seconds, Susan simply stared at him.
Then she laughed again.
Louder this time.
"You expect me to believe you bought 814?"
"I don't expect you to do anything."
Marcus shifted the box against his chest.
"I bought the house. I'm moving into it. That's all."
Susan's gaze traveled down his faded gray shirt, worn jeans, and work boots before settling on the scratched Ford.
"How much do you think this house costs?"
Marcus's expression didn't change.
"I know what it costs."
"I've lived next door for 22 years."
"Then I imagine you do, too."
Susan's mouth tightened.
"That isn't an answer."
"You didn't ask a question I owe you an answer to."
For the first time, the certainty in Susan's face flickered.
Marcus wasn't insulting her.
That made it worse.
He spoke with the calm courtesy of a man refusing to accept the authority she had assigned herself.
Susan pointed at the front door.
"Prove you have permission to be inside."
Marcus looked at her.
"Permission?"
"If you're working for the owner, there should be paperwork."
"I am the owner."
"Then prove it."
Marcus took a slow breath.
He had spent almost three decades dealing with people on their worst days.
He knew the difference between confusion and confrontation.
This was no misunderstanding.
Still, he decided to give her one clean opportunity to end it.
"All right."
He carried the box to the porch.
Susan followed several steps behind.
Marcus set the carton down.
Removed the house key from his pocket.
Held it where she could see it.
He inserted it into the lock.
Turned it.
The deadbolt opened.
Marcus pushed the door inward.
"There."
Susan stared into the empty hallway.
Sunlight stretched across the hardwood floor.
Several boxes Marcus had already carried inside sat beside the staircase.
The evidence was simple.
Visible.
Undeniable.