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vehicle,” Harmon explained. “When opportunity presents itself, the guy on the ground gains access through a back or side entrance, finds the box marked
Grandmother’s Silver,
whatever else he can grab in a hurry.” He gestured at a few of the boxes containing our belongings. “He signals by cell phone, the partner rides in, and off they go.”
    “Nice,” I said. I was thinking,
A spot on the premises.
I thought of men lurking in the woods behind our house, watching and waiting. I wondered where Sara’s attacker had been hiding when I’d left. Had I actually walked right past him? The thought prickled the skin at the back of my neck.
    Harmon shrugged. “Like I said, that’s been our theory.”
    Sara sat quietly through all of this. I said, “I don’t mean to be argumentative, Detective, but this guy wasn’t hunting for silverware.”
    “If I can be honest, that’s what troubles me.” Harmon closed his notepad. “Our offenders logged a few wins before we came up with a vehicle description and put it out over the local news. They’ve been quiet ever since.” He looked at us and shrugged again. “Maybe they’re back in business, or maybe somebody new decided to get in on the act. Either way, this is the first assault we’ve seen. That changes the picture. Con siderably.”
    I felt Sara tense beside me. I reached out, put my hand on her knee. She flinched when I touched her. Then she laced her fingers through mine and squeezed.
    “Based on the way this played out, I’m still inclined to believe that in your case, the suspect made a mistake. Thought the house was empty.” Harmon opened his notepad again. “Mrs. Callaway—Sara—you said that when you heard the subject come in, you assumed it was Paul, and you called a greeting?”
    “I… Yes, that’s right.”
    “My guess is that our subject came in with one idea and then, unfortunately, got another.” Harmon let his tone imply the rest:
If he’d liked the second idea badly enough…
    A burly cop came through the room, gun belt creaking, nodding politely as he passed us. He wore a pair of latex gloves and carried my golf club by the butt of the grip, between two fingers.
    “The good news,” Harmon said, “is that we stand to retrieve prints from that club of yours. Hopefully elsewhere. And you’re the first to provide a physical description we can work with. Nice short game, by the way.”
    I glanced at the uniformed officer, already on his way out the front door with the evidence. From where I sat, I could see that the club I’d grabbed was a Chi Chi Rodriguez sand wedgeleft over from the junior set I’d had when I was twelve. A kid’s model. Everything about the situation suddenly seemed absurd to me.
    “If I could do it again,” I said, “I’d use my driver.” Detective Harmon chuckled. Sara squeezed my hand. I felt like a hero for a moment, and then it passed.
    A stout limestone sign at the mouth of the cul- de- sac lets you know when you’ve found Sycamore Court. According to Jodi, our realtor, what seemed like an offshoot to the larger subdivision down the hill had actually existed before the rest, a woodsy enclave on the northwestern edge of a town that had grown out to meet it.
    There were four other homes situated around the circle; any one of them, in a similar neighborhood, in almost any New England city of comparable size, would have doubled the mortgage we’d signed on to pay here in Clark Falls.
    Standing on the front walk with Sara, the heat of the day still hanging in the air, I watched the ripple effect of our incident as officers moved from house to house, climbing steps, knocking on doors. Flashlight beams arced in the surrounding woods as cops in uniform spoke to people in bathrobes.
    Eyes turned to the new couple on the block. I wondered what people would be saying about us over the backyard grape vine in the morning. Then I remembered that I’d never cared what the neighbors said in Newton, or anywhere else.