Page 5 of Yes No Maybe

Everyone does, but as an army brat with a single mother who moved twelve times in as many years, his words felt especially true. Mom made our nomadic life the best it could be, but I’m more determined as an adult to be rooted in a place I love. With Mira here and the beach nearby, choosing Wilmington to be my hometown was a no-brainer. Picking this place to be my home felt just as easy.

I plop onto the fireplace’s brick hearth, exhaustion mixing with confusion. And sadness. I accidentally broke Dean’s heart tonight, and now, mine’s breaking, too.

Rain pelts the windows and roof in an angry drumbeat, the sky dumping its frustrations—wish I could do the same. Lightning flashes brightly through the unobstructed windows, and thunder shakes the foundation.

But I scream when apound, pound, poundrattles the front door.

“We know you’re in there! Open up!” an angry male voice orders as I rush to the door. “It’s the police!”

“Vernon!” a woman chides. “You can’t say that!”

Dumbfounded at the entryway, I peer into the holehesitantly. In my first apartment, I went through a mystery phase, during which I deduced that the perfect way to murder someone would be to shoot them through a peephole. It’s the efficiency of it, you see—quick with no blood spatter.

Answering doors always incites my anxiety anyway.

A small army of hooded rain jackets and flashlights stand on the other side, one holding a frying pan. But no guns in sight, thankfully.

“Who are you, and what do you want?” I demand, my voice cracking.

“Neighborhood watch, and if you don’t open this door, we’re calling the police.”

So, not the police. I slip out my phone, wondering if I should call them myself. I peep again to see them in a whispered argument, the smaller one waving the frying pan. There are four of them—the two animated ones in front, a tall one with his arms crossed directly behind them like a bouncer, and a fourth, leaning, as if bored, against a porch column. The bouncer steps between the arguers and gently taps on the door.

“Ma’am, this house should be vacant. We saw the lights and grew concerned. If you can alleviate those concerns, we can all go home to bed.”

Swinging the door open prompts their flashlights. I twist to the right and raise my left hand to block the beans. Spotlights on my scarred side make me want to shrink away, but I straighten myself and force a smile.Game face, Rowan.

“I’m Rowan Mackey. My sister-in-law and real estate agent, Jane Freely, lent me the key for a final walkthrough. I apologize that it’s late, but I didn’t think anyone would notice… or care if they did.”

“Oh, are you putting in an offer?” The one with the frying pan, now lowered, is a woman. And British. But I can’t see their faces, for the lights still blinding me and their hoods shadowing them. Her light rolls over my green chiffon dress and wet toes, peeping from my strappy black heels. “Oh, fancy frock. You look lovely, dear!”

“Have you just enjoyed a night on the town?” the man beside her asks conversationally.

The leaning raincoat pushes off the column with urgency, slapping down their flashlights. “This isn’t an interrogation. The house is fine. The neighborhood’s safe. Criminals don’t look like her.”

I grimace with offense, assuming he means my scarred face.

“I’ll have you know thatsomecriminal masterminds dress up,” the other man says, finger raised. “This bank robber in the fifties wore a black suit and tie to every robbery. Oh, and a very nice hat. Started a trend, he did.”

He meant my clothes. Of course.My shoulders dip with relief—I’m being oversensitive.

“Oh, come now, Jack,” the woman says. “What’s the harm in a little chat? It might rustle you up some story ideas. What do you do, Rowan?”

“I’m a teacher.”

She gasps while the man at her side steps forward. “Teachers are the unsung heroes of society. My mother, God rest her soul, taught for nearly fifty years.”

“Vernon, hush.”

Lightning flashes, and thunder drowns her next words. With rain spitting into the porch sideways, it seems proper social protocol to say, “Would you like to come in?”

The frying pan lady steps in first. “Rose McGinty.” She drops her raincoat at the door, revealing a mop of gray-red curls. “Me and Vernon live across the street.”

“It’s a great neighborhood,” he says, following his wife’s lead—raincoat discarded—and moving inside after a firm handshake.

“Tom Goodman. My wife Marcy and I live across the street, diagonally. A pleasure to meet you, Rowan,” says the radio-voiced bouncer.

The fourth man, Jack, ducks by me with a grunt, not removing his raincoat or lowering his hood. His gruffness feels like an icy draft through an old castle, sending a shiver through me.

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