“That’s my property.”
Whitney spoke quickly.
“No, it isn’t.”
Paul looked uncomfortable.
“That’s what we’re here to establish.”
Then I understood why Whitney had asked how much the camera caught.
The flowers hadn’t been bothering her because they were colorful. They had been in her way.
Paul began taking measurements. I followed him, watching where he placed each marker.
Whitney followed me.
For years, my mother’s flower bed had run along the same line as the old Mitchell fence.
When the Mitchells replaced part of it years earlier, Mom and I had used the original metal boundary markers to keep the garden entirely on my side.
I knew exactly where one marker was.
Or where it had been.
I walked to the corner.
The marker was gone.
I stared at the dirt. “What happened here?”
Paul crouched beside the bare patch of dirt and brushed aside the loose soil with his fingers.
“There should be a pin.”
Whitney folded her arms.
“Maybe there never was.”
I looked at her.
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