After paying for the elderly woman’s groceries, she whispered quietly to me, “When your husband leaves, do not touch the snow in the yard.”

I laughed it off but decided to listen.

And when I stepped out onto the porch the next morning, I was stunned by what I saw.

—

I was standing in line at the checkout of our local grocery store, clutching my worn-out tote bag to my chest. Outside the windows, a blizzard was sweeping through the streets. December had turned out to be especially snowy this year.

Fifty-eight is the age when you stop running around supermarkets looking for sales and start going to the familiar place near your house where the clerks know you by name.

Ahead of me, right at the register, a hunched-over elderly woman in a faded shawl was fumbling around. She poured loose change onto the counter from a tattered wallet, counting the coins with trembling fingers. On the belt lay the most modest of purchases: a loaf of bread, a carton of milk, three potatoes, and a small onion.

“Ma’am, you’re short,” the cashier—a young woman named Candace with tired eyes—said wearily. “You’re short about a dollar.”

“How can that be, baby?” The old woman muttered in confusion, sorting through the coins again. “I counted at home. I counted everything.”

Behind me, someone sighed in annoyance. The line was growing, and people were in a hurry to get home out of the bad weather.

I looked at the shrunken figure of the old woman, at her hands red from the cold, at her cheap groceries. Something tugged inside me.

How many times had I walked past someone else’s grief, pretending not to notice? How many times had I turned away so as not to see someone else’s need?

But today, something made me step forward.

“Candace, ring it up with mine,” I said, handing a twenty-dollar bill over the old woman’s shoulder. “I’ll pay for it.”

“Oh, honey, you really don’t have to.” The old woman flustered, turning around. “I’ll just put something back.”

“Don’t worry about it, ma’am.” I smiled warmly. “It’s nothing. Not even worth mentioning.”

The old woman raised her eyes to me, and I involuntarily shuddered at her strange, piercing gaze. Her eyes were not old at all. They were clear, deep, as if they saw right through me, straight into my soul. The woman was small and fragile, her face furrowed with deep wrinkles, but in those eyes shone some unusual power. An ancient wisdom.

“Thank you, daughter.” The old woman scooped her purchases into a worn plaid bag, and her voice trembled with gratitude. “Your kindness will not be forgotten. It will come back to you.”

I shrugged, paying for my own groceries. Chicken for a stew, vegetables, bread, a couple of cans of goods. Vernon was leaving this evening for another long-haul run—a week, maybe ten days. I had to cook for him for the road and stock up on everything necessary for myself while he was away.

Thirty-two years married. All that time, I had seen him off on trips, waited for his return, cooked, washed, cleaned. Life flowed in a well-worn groove, monotonous and predictable.

I had already picked up my bags, intending to leave, when I felt an unexpectedly strong grip on the sleeve of my old coat.

The old woman stood beside me, clutching the fabric with wiry fingers so hard I could not immediately pull away.

“Listen to me carefully, daughter.” She whispered, leaning in so close I could feel her breath. The old woman smelled of mothballs, dried herbs, and something else elusive and ancient. “When your husband leaves for the night, do not touch the snow in the yard. Do you hear me? No matter what he tells you, do not shovel until morning. Let the white lie untouched.”

“What?” I blinked in confusion, trying to understand the meaning of these strange words. “What snow?”

“Do not touch the snow until morning.” The old woman repeated slowly, distinctly, as if hammering every word into my consciousness. Her fingers gripped my sleeve even tighter, almost to the point of pain. “Promise me. This is very important. Your life depends on it. Believe an old woman.”

“Yes. Okay. Okay.” I agreed mechanically, freeing my arm and involuntarily stepping back. My heart beat anxiously. I felt uneasy from that intense, almost hypnotic gaze. “I won’t shovel. I promise.”

The old woman finally let me go, nodded slowly as if satisfied with the promise, and quickly—surprisingly agile for her age—walked out of the store, dissolving into the snowy whirl beyond the glass doors.

I watched her go, then shook my head, chasing away the strange sensation. *The poor old woman must not be all there.*

I felt sorry for old folks. Lonely, poor, living in their own world of fantasies and superstitions. Maybe from need and loneliness, the mind gets confused, and so she spouts nonsense about snow and husbands.

—

Outside, I was immediately blasted by a snowy vortex. Icy flakes plastered my face. I shivered, wrapped myself deeper into my old scarf, and walked quickly to the bus stop where a small group of chilled people had already gathered.

Vernon and I lived on the outskirts of the city in a quiet suburb where houses sat on large lots. The house had belonged to my parents—a sturdy old place with thick walls built back in the seventies. I had been the mistress of it for many years. I had revitalized the once-neglected garden, planted apple trees that now gave a harvest every summer, cultivated flower beds, roses near the porch, peonies along the walkway.

Thirty-two years married, and for the greater part of them—almost thirty years—we had lived in this very house. It was home to me.

The bus was stuffy, crowded, and smelled of wet wool. I squeezed to the window, leaned my forehead against the cold glass, and remembered the words of the strange old woman again.

*Do not touch the snow.*

What sort of eccentricity was that? Honestly, just this morning, while hurriedly eating breakfast before heading out, Vernon had grumbled that the driveway absolutely needed to be cleared, that the drifts were piling up high, and the walkways were completely covered. He ordered me to take care of it by evening so the paths would be clear. Otherwise, he couldn’t turn the car around.

And here some strange, senile lady whispers weird things about snow.

A stupid coincidence. Nothing more.

—

The house met me with dark, empty windows and cold. Vernon had gone to the depot in the morning to prep the truck for the haul and hadn’t turned up the heat. I went in, shook the snow off my boots onto the mat, took off my wet coat, walked across the cold floor to the kitchen, turned up the thermostat, put the kettle on the stove, unpacked the groceries, and neatly put everything in its place.

Vegetables in the pantry. Chicken in the fridge. Bread in the box.

Every movement was habitual, practiced over the years.

The house gradually warmed up. The baseboards creaked cozily as the heat rose, and the kettle began to whistle. Vernon was supposed to return by six in the evening to pick up his things and food for the road.

I began to cook with the same method as always. I cleaned and cut the chicken, put it on to boil for a rich broth, chopped vegetables for the salad that Vernon liked to take with him, and took out the meatloaf from the freezer—which I had prepared a week ago, especially for his trip. He preferred home-cooked food to roadside diners. Said there was nothing but chemicals and dirt there.

At exactly six, the front door slammed, and the cold burst into the house along with Vernon.

He walked in with a heavy tread, shaking snow from his jacket right onto the floor, paying no attention to the puddles. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a weathered, hard face and cold gray eyes. Fifty-nine years old, but he looked solid and strong despite a quarter of a century behind the wheel of an eighteen-wheeler. Twenty-five years of roads. Thousands and thousands of miles across the country.

“Well, is everything ready?” he asked instead of a greeting, not even looking at me, walking straight into the kitchen.

“Yes, Vern. I’m packing it now.”

I had already taken out the prepared containers and began neatly arranging the cooled soup, meatloaf, salad, and cornbread.

Vernon sat at the table, heavily poured himself tea from the old ceramic pot, added three spoons of sugar, and stayed silent, staring at his phone screen, typing something quickly, never once looking at me.

I stole a glance at him. At the profile I knew down to the smallest detail.

When had this begun? This alienation, this wall of ice between us? A year ago? Two? Maybe five? Or ten? Before, in the early years, he would return from trips tired but happy, hug me at the threshold, tell me about the road, about the people he met, joke and laugh. And now only silence. Only irritation in every movement, in every glance, as if I were not a wife but a tiresome servant.

“Clear the snow this evening once it gets dark.” Vernon threw out, not looking up from his phone. “The driveway is completely buried. It might drift even more tomorrow.”

“Vernon, it’s already almost dark. The blizzard is bad—”

I started, but cut myself off when I saw him raise a cold gaze to me.

“I said this evening.” He cut in sharply. “You’re not a child. You can handle it in half an hour. I don’t have time. The haul starts early tomorrow morning. The cargo is important.”

I pressed my lips together, continuing to silently pack the containers into the large travel bag.

The old woman’s words came to mind. *When your husband leaves for the night, do not touch the snow.*

A coincidence strange to the point of impossibility—although what sort of coincidence, really? It’s winter, after all. You have to shovel snow every week, or even more often in this weather.

“When exactly are you leaving?” I asked quietly.

“In about an hour. The load is already packed and sealed. The paperwork is all ready and signed.” Vernon finished his cooled tea in one big gulp and stood up heavily. “I’m going to take a shower, grab my things, and head out.”

He went upstairs to the bedroom.

I remained in the kitchen alone, slowly eating the cooled soup I had made that morning. Outside the window, the wind howled and snow fell ceaselessly in large flakes. I walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and looked out into the yard. The single streetlamp by the gate barely pierced through the thick snowy veil, illuminating the swirling snowflakes. The path to the gate was indeed almost completely buried. The white drift reached almost to the knee.

About forty minutes later, Vernon came down, already dressed in his road clothes, with his heavy duffel bag on his shoulder. I handed him the bag of food wrapped in several layers.

“Will you call when you get there?” I asked, knowing that usually he did not call, but asking out of habit anyway.

“Yeah,” he threw back shortly, taking the bag, and did not even look me in the eye. He did not even kiss me goodbye as he always used to do. Just gave a short nod. “Look, make sure you shovel the snow, you hear? Or it’ll drift up again overnight, and you won’t be able to get out in the morning.”

The door slammed with a dull thud. I heard his old pickup truck start up and roll down the snowy street. The sound of the engine gradually faded into the distance.

I sat at the kitchen table, wrapping my hands around a cup of cold tea. It became quiet. Empty. And somehow anxious in my soul, though I did not know why.

The old woman’s words surfaced in my memory again. Clear and persistent.

*Do not touch the snow.*

I shook my head, trying to chase these thoughts away. Foolishness. Old folk superstition. But something held me back from dressing warmly and going out to shovel the yard as Vernon had ordered.

Fatigue crashed down all at once like a sack of sand on my shoulders. The day had been long and exhausting. My legs buzzed. My back ached from housework. And the blizzard was raging so hard that everything would just be covered again by morning anyway.

What was the point of suffering now?

I decided I would not go out into this bitter freeze to drag a shovel around. I would deal with it in the morning if it was really necessary. Vernon was already far away. He would not see, would not know. And if anything, I would blame the blizzard. Say it was pointless to clear in such weather.

I went upstairs to the bedroom, changed into an old, warm nightgown and a soft robe, and lay down on the bed with a tattered book I had started reading a week ago.

But I could not read. The letters swam before my eyes. My thoughts tangled, returning again and again to the strange meeting in the store.

Who *was* that mysterious old woman? Why did she say exactly that about the snow, about the yard? And why did she look so persistently, so seriously, so piercingly into my eyes, as if warning of something terrible and inevitable?

Outside the window, the wind continued to howl. The house creaked under strong gusts. I got up, walked to the bedroom window, and looked out. The yard was drowning in pitch darkness. Only the weak yellowish light of the single lamp by the gate snatched swirling thick snowflakes from the gloom. The path had completely disappeared under a thick white blanket. The gate, the porch, the rose bushes—everything was buried beyond recognition.

A strange, anxious feeling seized me, tightening my chest. As if something absolutely had to happen this night. Something important. Fateful. Something that could not be brushed aside.

I returned to the bed and lay down, pulling the warm blanket up to my chin. I did not want to sleep at all, despite the fatigue. I lay there listening to the howling of the winter wind outside the window and simply could not get rid of the growing anxiety squeezing my heart.

The old clock on the nightstand ticked monotonously, showing eleven at night.

Vernon was probably already far away from here, speeding along the snowy night highway, listening to the radio, drinking strong coffee from a thermos, thinking about his own things. What did he even think about lately? I wondered. We had barely spoken in recent months—years. He would come home, sleep off the road, eat something without looking, pack up again, and leave.

We lived like complete strangers under one roof, connected only by a marriage license.

When exactly had this happened?

I sorted through the memories of the last years of our life together. Maybe it all started after we realized we could not have children. But that was so long ago—at the very beginning of our marriage, more than thirty years back. Back then, Vernon seemed to comfort me, said the right words—that we would live well just the two of us, that happiness was not just in children.

Or maybe it was my serious illness three years ago. The surgery. The long, painful recovery. Vernon had become especially distant then, cold. As if I had become a burden to him. Or simply tired of me. Of our monotonous life. Of this old house. Of my aging face. Of everything.

I closed my eyes, trying to chase away the heavy, pressing thoughts. *Tomorrow will be a new day. Maybe all of this just seems this way because of exhaustion and loneliness. Winter blues. That’s all.*

I needed to pull myself together. Do something useful. When Vernon returned in a week, I would cook something special. Something delicious. We would sit down and talk normally. Heart to heart.

We hadn’t really talked in a long time.

—

Sleep came in snatches, restless and anxious. I would fall into a fitful doze, then wake up sharply from especially strong gusts of wind, from the creaking of window frames.

I dreamed of that old woman from the store. Her piercing, all-seeing eyes. Her dry, gripping fingers on my sleeve.

*”Do not touch the snow,”* she repeated in the dream, again and again, like a spell.

I woke up early, still completely dark. I looked with sleepy eyes at the clock. The beginning of six in the morning. Outside the window, it was just starting to lighten a tiny bit. The blizzard had finally stopped completely. The silence was somehow special. Dense. Ringing.

I got up, threw a warm knitted robe over my shoulders, went down to the kitchen, mechanically put the kettle on the stove, lit the burner, walked to the window—

And froze.

Not believing my eyes.

The yard was entirely covered in untouched, smooth snow. Absolutely white. But from the gate to the house, to the windows of the first floor, led clear, very deep footprints.

Men’s footprints. From heavy, large boots. Definitely not Vernon’s. I knew his shoes, his size, his walk perfectly well. Completely strange tracks.

Someone had come to our house at night. Walked around the yard. Come close to the windows.

While I remained completely alone.

—

I stood by the window, clutching the windowsill with whitened fingers. My heart pounded so hard and fast that it seemed it was about to jump out of my chest. I could not tear my gaze away from the tracks, trying to understand, to comprehend what was happening.

Deep, clear prints of heavy boots led from the very gate straight to the house, methodically circling it on two sides, stopping at every window of the ground floor.

As if someone were carefully studying the house.

Someone had walked around my house at night while I slept. Completely alone. Defenseless.

My hands trembled slightly. I stepped back from the window, pressing my palm to my mouth to hold back a frightened sob fighting to get out. Breathing became difficult. I needed to calm down, pull myself together, think clearly.

Maybe it was neighbors for some reason.

No. That was impossible. The neighbors on the left—the elderly Petersons—both of them were over seventy. Such deep, heavy tracks were definitely not theirs. The lot on the right had been empty for a year. The owners had moved to the city long ago. The house was closed up. And across the street lived only Mrs. Higgins.

But why would an elderly woman walk around a stranger’s yard in a blizzard at night?

I forced myself to walk closer to the glass, peering at the tracks more carefully. They did not go chaotically or disorderly, but very purposefully. Thoughtfully. From the gate straight to the living room windows, then neatly along the wall to the kitchen windows, further to the back of the house where the pantry and the basement entrance were.

As if someone were methodically walking the perimeter of the house, carefully looking into every window, studying something, watching, checking.

A cold chill ran down my spine. Goosebumps covered my skin.

Burglars. Preparing, looking for what to steal.

But they took nothing. They did not even try to break in. The gate was closed on a simple latch. The lock was intact and unharmed. The tracks led only from the gate into the yard and back. That meant the person somehow opened it, walked through calmly, circled the house, then just as calmly closed the gate and left.

Without rushing.

The kettle on the stove whistled piercingly, and I shuddered with my whole body at the sudden sharp sound. I turned off the gas with a trembling hand, but did not even think about brewing tea.

I had to do something urgently. Make a decision. Call the police.

But what exactly to say? That at night, someone strange walked around the yard, but stole absolutely nothing, broke nothing, smashed nothing?

I remembered our community officer, Gareth Pernell. I had known him for many years, ever since he came to work in this precinct as a very young man. Now he was over fifty, but he still worked diligently. He was known as a conscientious, responsive man. Someone you could turn to.

I could definitely call him.

I quickly went up to the bedroom, dressed hurriedly, pulling on whatever came to hand—warm sweatpants, a thick wool sweater—and swapped my slippers for warm winter boots. I took out my cell phone and found the officer’s number in my old contacts.

My fingers were still trembling nastily as I dialed.

“Officer Pernell, this is Elara Vance from Chestnut Street, house seventeen. Please excuse me for calling so early, but I have a very strange situation here.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Vance.” The officer’s familiar, calm, slightly raspy voice came through. “What happened?”

“Last night, someone came to my house. They walked around the yard. Left tracks in the snow. I was home alone. My husband left for a long haul, and I’m very—I got really scared.”

“I see. Did anything go missing? Did they break the door? Are the windows intact?”

“No. Everything seems whole and in place. But the tracks—they lead right up to the windows from all sides. As if someone was purposely peeking inside or looking for something specific.”

Gareth Pernell was silent for a few seconds on the other end of the line, thinking.

“All right, I’ll come over right now. Twenty, thirty minutes max. Do not go out of the house for now. Do not trample the tracks under any circumstances. And check all windows and doors thoroughly. Make sure everything is securely locked.”

“Thank you so much.” I exhaled with relief. “I’ll wait for you.”

—

I put the phone on the table and immediately began checking the house.

I looked around with new, wary attention. The house now seemed foreign. Hostile. Unsafe. Every familiar creak of the floorboards, every rustle outside the window made me flinch nervously and look around.

I methodically walked through all the rooms on the first floor, carefully checking the windows. All were tightly closed with latches. Nowhere were there even the slightest signs of an attempted break-in. The front door was locked with two turns of the key and the chain. Exactly as I had left it for the night before bed.

It seemed everything was in perfect order. But for some reason, this did not calm me down at all.

On the contrary, it worried me even more.

I walked again, as if drawn by a magnet, to the kitchen window, peering at the tracks. Now, in the brighter morning light, they were visible even more clearly. Even more frighteningly. Very large. Very deep. The distance between steps was quite wide. Definitely a man. Tall. Heavy. Large build. He walked leisurely, completely confidently, calmly.

He knew exactly what he was doing and why he came.

Twenty minutes dragged on excruciatingly, unbearably long, like hours. I sat in the kitchen clutching a cup of completely cold tea in my trembling hands and literally could not take my tense gaze off the window.

What if this unknown person returns right now? What if he is watching somewhere nearby, waiting for the right moment when I step out or get distracted?

Finally, bright headlights hit the window.

I jumped up from the chair and looked out. The recognizable cruiser of Officer Pernell. He got out of the car—a tall, heavy-set African American man, a little over fifty, in a uniform winter jacket and a warm hat.

I literally ran to the door, threw it open before he could ring the bell.

“Officer Pernell, thank you so much for coming so quickly.” I stepped aside, letting him into the house.

“Oh, think nothing of it, Mrs. Vance. It’s my job.” He deliberately shook the stuck snow off his heavy boots, walking after me into the kitchen. His experienced gaze immediately caught the window, the view of the yard. “Show me exactly where the tracks are.”

We went out together onto the cold porch. The frosty, prickly air painfully burned my flushed face and lungs. Officer Pernell slowly, thoroughly descended the creaking wooden steps, carefully examining the snowy yard. He walked right up to the tracks, carefully squatted down, examining each print for a long time.

“Boots. Size twelve, maybe even thirteen.” He muttered thoughtfully to himself, clearly estimating. “Deep tread sole. Looks like work boots or combat boots. Coming from the gate.” He slowly traced the entire chain of tracks with an attentive gaze from beginning to end—straight to the living room windows, then methodically along the entire wall of the house to the back, then back the same way to the gate. “Very strange. Who could it even be?”

I hugged myself tightly, wrapping up in the old jacket I had hastily thrown over my shoulders, shivering not only from the cold.

“That is indeed a very good and important question.” Gareth heavily rose from his squat, brushing snow off his knees. “Tell me, Mrs. Vance, do you have any serious conflicts with neighbors? Maybe someone took offense at something, holds a grudge.”

“No. What do you mean? We speak absolutely normally with all the neighbors. We live quietly, peacefully. We don’t bother anyone. We don’t quarrel with anyone.”

“And your husband—when exactly did he leave for his trip?”

“Yesterday evening around seven. He left for a long haul. At least a week. Maybe even longer.”

The officer slowly nodded, recording something intently in a small battered notebook. “That means this person knew for sure that you remained in the house completely alone. Very interesting. And concerning. Opened the gate carefully, walked through calmly, then just as carefully closed the gate back and left. Didn’t hurry at all. Behaved confidently.”

“Officer, what do you think he was doing here at all? Why come at night? Walk around the house?”

“That is exactly what we have to find out.” The officer looked at me with a very serious, heavy gaze. “There are several possible options. Maybe he was scoping out what exactly is valuable in the house, preparing for a robbery. Maybe he was checking thoroughly to see if anyone lives in the house, if it is empty. Or maybe—”

He didn’t finish.

But I understood perfectly well without words. Maybe this person was preparing for something much worse than a simple robbery. For an attack. For violence.

“Do any of your neighbors have security cameras installed?” Pernell asked in a businesslike manner, looking around at the neighboring houses.

I thought tensely, remembering. “Mrs. Higgins across the street seems to have a camera. She installed a system last year after the Petersons’ garage got broken into.”

“Excellent. That can help a lot. Let’s go to her right now. Ask to see the footage. Possibly the camera captured who exactly came, what car they arrived in.”

We quickly walked out the gate, crossed the empty, snowy road. Mrs. Higgins’s house stood directly opposite—neat, well-kept, painted a pleasant light blue with nice wooden shutters. I rang the doorbell at the gate.

About a minute and a half later, the front door of the house swung open. The hostess herself appeared on the porch—a plump, good-natured woman of about seventy in a bright floral housecoat, with gray hair neatly gathered in a small bun at the back of her head.

“Elara, honey, what happened? Is something wrong?” Mrs. Higgins squinted anxiously, looking with curiosity at the officer standing nearby.

“Mrs. Higgins, hello. You see, someone strange walked in my yard last night. There are clear tracks left in the snow. Officer Pernell came to sort it out. Can we look at the recording from your security camera? Maybe something important is visible on it.”

“Oh, Lord have mercy.” The neighbor threw up her hand sincerely. “Someone strange walked around at night, and you were alone? Vernon is on a long haul? My God, how scary. Yes, come in quickly. Of course, come in. We’ll definitely look.”

We walked inside the cozy house into a small but very clean and tidy living room, densely packed with old, sturdy furniture made of dark wood. A modern flatscreen TV hung on the wall, and beneath it stood a black box for the video recorder with blinking green and red lights.

Mrs. Higgins fussily, a little confusedly, turned on the TV, fiddling for a long time with several remotes. “Here. It seems to be working and showing. Officer Pernell, you figure out this technology yourself because I don’t understand it very well. My grandson set it up.”

The officer silently nodded, confidently took the remote control, and began quickly rewinding the recording. I froze nearby, not tearing myself away from the screen, afraid to miss even a single thing.

On the black-and-white, grainy recording, the street in front of Mrs. Higgins’s house was clearly visible. My own house opposite. The gate of my yard. Part of the yard itself.

“You say your husband left the house around seven in the evening?” Gareth clarified, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“Yes, around seven. Maybe a little later.”

He quickly rewound the recording to eight in the evening and set playback to normal speed. The picture was not the best quality—grainy, black and white, blurred in places due to the falling snow. But on the whole, it was quite possible to distinguish what was happening.

The street was completely empty. Deserted. Snow falling in a thick veil. Visibility very poor.

Time on the recording crawled slowly forward. Nine p.m. Ten. Eleven.

“Here. Look closely right here.” Pernell poked a thick finger intensely right at the screen. “At four minutes to midnight.”

On the deserted street, an unfamiliar car unexpectedly appeared. A regular dark sedan. Slowly, leisurely drove up, neatly stopped right opposite my house.

A tall man in a dark bulky jacket and a knit cap pulled low over his forehead got out of the car leisurely. It was absolutely impossible to make out a face on such a recording. He calmly looked around, as if checking if there were witnesses, then confidently opened my gate and disappeared behind it, dissolving into the darkness.

“Lord have mercy,” I whispered, feeling my insides turn traitorously cold, my legs going weak.

About ten minutes later—maybe twelve—the man appeared in the frame again. He walked out of my yard, completely calm, just as methodically closed the gate behind him on the latch, got into his car, and slowly, without rushing, drove away, disappearing around the bend.

“Pause,” Officer Pernell commanded shortly, hitting the button. He rewound a little bit back, froze the image at the moment when the car was visible best of all. “Here is the license plate. Hard to see because of the snow and darkness, but I think we can try to make out a few numbers. And here on the side door of the car—that is a logo of some company. Writing.”

I squinted, staring intensely at the blurred, fuzzy image on the screen. On the side of the car, there was indeed something light painted. Some large inscription. An emblem.

“Looks very much like a company car.” The officer muttered thoughtfully. “Definitely not a private owner. Some organization. A serious firm.”

“Or maybe it’s appraisers from a real estate agency.” Mrs. Higgins suddenly piped up. She had been standing nearby all this time, watching intently, pressing both hands to her ample chest.

“From a real estate agency?” I turned sharply to the neighbor, not understanding. “What appraisers, Maria? Why appraisers at all?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. Maybe someone is planning to sell the house. Doing an appraisal.” The neighbor suddenly cut herself off mid-sentence, seeing my completely whitened, frozen face. “Oh, Elara, forgive me. I’m an old fool. Probably said something stupid.”

But Officer Pernell was already alert like an experienced hound. “Mrs. Higgins, why did you think of a real estate agency immediately?”

“Well, just an association.” The neighbor hesitated, embarrassed. “Just last month, an appraiser from an agency came to me when I was looking at and buying my daughter’s apartment in the city. So, he also arrived late in the evening. He had no time during the day. In exactly the same company car—with a big bright agency logo on the door. It just seemed very similar to me.”

The officer magnified the image of the car on the screen even more, as much as the recording quality allowed. The writing on the side door was very hard to read due to distance and darkness. Blurred. But the first word could still be distinguished.

It seemed to be *Hearth*. “Hearth… something else.”

He quickly wrote this down in his notebook. “We definitely need to check all the real estate agencies in our city and county urgently. Find out who exactly has such company cars with similar markings.”

I was silent, finding no words.

One insane, simply incredible thought was spinning in my head, making me feel sick.

An appraiser from a real estate agency came to inspect my house at night.

But who could have called this appraiser? The house was titled strictly to me. Entirely in my name. I had never given anyone any permissions, any power of attorney. I was not planning to sell anything at all.

This was my only home.

“Mrs. Vance.” Gareth Pernell gently but firmly placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Did you by chance give anyone an official notarized power of attorney for your house? For a sale? For signing any documents, deals?”

“No. Of course not.” I shook my head resolutely. “I didn’t even think about any sale. This is my home. I’ve lived here my whole life.”

“And your husband—Vernon—could he?”

I felt the ground go out from under my feet.

I froze.

“Vernon? But he can’t do anything at all without my knowledge and consent. The house is fully titled strictly to me. In my name.”

“Theoretically, he really cannot and should not.” The officer agreed slowly. “But in practice, unfortunately, all sorts of unpleasant situations happen. Fraud. Forgery of signatures and documents. Let’s definitely check the real estate agencies in all districts. If it really was an appraiser from some agency, we will definitely find out thoroughly who exactly ordered this nighttime assessment of your house.”

—

By lunchtime, we were sitting in the office of Hearthstone Realty in the city center.

Gareth Pernell had found three agencies with similar logos in the vehicle database. Called them. And in the third one, they confirmed: yes, their appraiser went out to Chestnut Street yesterday evening.

The agency director, Isaac Graves—a man of about forty in an expensive suit—met us with a faint politeness that poorly concealed his nervousness.

“Please have a seat.” He pointed to the leather chairs in front of the desk. “How can I help?”

“Yesterday, your employee went to the address seventeen Chestnut Street.” Pernell began, taking out his badge. “Appraised a house. We would like to know the details.”

“Chestnut seventeen.” Graves frowned, opened a folder on the desk, leafed through. “Yes, correct. Order for an appraisal of a private house with a lot. What is the problem?”

“The problem is—” I leaned forward, trying to speak calmly, though my hands were shaking. “That house is mine, and I did not call anyone for an appraisal.”

The director raised his eyebrows. “How is that? The order is filed in the owner’s name. Look here.” He turned the folder around, showed a document. “Vance Vernon Michael—client, owner—Vance Elara. There is a power of attorney from the owner.”

“What power of attorney?” My voice broke. “I gave no power of attorney.”

Graves blinked in confusion, dug into the folder again, took out another sheet. “Here, please. Power of attorney from Vance Elara to authorized spouse to represent interests in real estate transactions. Notarized.” He held out the document.

I grabbed the sheet, drilling into it with my eyes. My name. Passport data. Address. Everything was correct. At the bottom, a signature.

My signature.

But I had not signed this. Never.

“It’s a forgery,” I whispered, feeling the room swim before my eyes. “I did not sign this.”

Officer Pernell took the document from me and studied it carefully. “Mr. Graves, when was this power of attorney brought to you?”

“A week ago. Vernon Vance came in person. Said he wanted to sell the house. Asked to conduct an appraisal. We processed everything, agreed on a site visit. He said his wife was aware—she just had no time to deal with it, trusted him.”

“And you did not check the authenticity of the power of attorney?” The officer looked at the director with a heavy gaze.

“It has a notary seal. Everything as required.” Graves squirmed in his chair. “We are not required to verify every power of attorney through the notary board. That’s not our job.”

“Show me all correspondence with the client.” Pernell cut him off. “Everything you have. Documents, contracts, emails.”

The director nodded and went to the computer. I sat staring at one spot. My head buzzed.

Vernon. My husband. Forged my signature.

Wanted to sell the house. *Our* house. Without saying a word to me.

“Look here.” Graves turned the monitor. “First contact, two weeks ago. He emailed, asked about appraisal and sale of a house. We set up a meeting. He came, brought documents. We drew up a contract for appraisal. The appraiser went out, inspected the house.”

“At night,” I inserted dully. “At eleven at night, while I was sleeping, he walked around the house, peered into windows.”

“Well, the client requested evening time. Specifically said someone is there during the day, and he needed it to be unnoticed.” Graves spread his hands. “We don’t refuse clients if the request doesn’t break the law.”

“And the fact that you’re working with forged documents—that doesn’t break the law?” Officer Pernell slammed his palm on the table.

“I didn’t know the documents were forged.” Graves went pale. “I swear