Chapter 1: The Green Paint
The first thing Daniel Mercer heard was the sound of paint hitting wood.
Not a careful brushstroke. Not the quiet tap of a roller.
A thick, wet splash.
He looked through the sliding glass door and saw dark green paint pouring across the light-blue Adirondack chair he had spent three weekends restoring.
For a moment, he couldn’t understand what he was seeing.
Then he saw the woman holding the paint can.
Karen Whitmore.
His neighbor.
She stood beside the chair in a bright red puffer jacket, one hand gripping an open metal can and the other dragging a wide brush through the paint. The restored blue wood disappeared beneath a spreading layer of green.
Daniel dropped the grocery bag in his hand.
“Are you serious?”
Karen turned.
She didn’t look frightened.
She looked annoyed that he had interrupted her.
Daniel crossed the patio in seconds and grabbed the paint can before she could pour another stream.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. “That’s my chair. Put the damn paint down.”
Karen yanked the brush away and pointed it at the chair.
“I’m correcting what you refused to fix.”
Daniel stared at her.
“Fix?”
“I’ve told you that chair makes this whole yard look disgusting,” she snapped. “You kept ignoring me.”
“It’s my yard.”
“And that chair sits where everyone can see it.”
Daniel looked down.
Green paint was running from the seat to the armrest, dripping onto the patio stones. Three weekends of sanding, staining, replacing damaged slats, and carefully sealing the wood had disappeared beneath Karen’s paint.
He tightened his grip on the can.
“You came into my yard and painted my property.”
Karen gave a dismissive shrug.
“It’s just a chair.”
Then she suddenly lunged past him.
Her hand caught the backrest.
Daniel grabbed the opposite armrest.
Karen pulled.
The chair scraped across the stone, leaving a thick green streak behind.
“You’re not taking it anywhere,” Daniel said.
She pulled harder.
“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
“You came into my yard, ruined my property, and now you’re trying to move it.”
Karen stopped.
Her face changed.
The smugness disappeared.
Her eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped.
“Evidence?”
Daniel said nothing.
“You really want to talk about evidence?” she asked.
She stepped closer.
“Then explain why your wife begged me to come over before you got home.”
Daniel froze.
The words landed harder than the paint can had.
“My wife?”
Karen watched his face carefully.
“Don’t drag my wife into this,” Daniel said. “Tell me exactly what you think you’re doing here.”
Karen looked toward the house.
Then she looked back at him.
A small, cold smile returned.
“She didn’t ask me to ruin your chair.”
Daniel waited.
“She asked me to make sure you couldn’t sell this house.”
For several seconds, neither moved.
The backyard suddenly seemed unnaturally quiet.
Daniel looked toward the sliding glass door.
Then at the ruined chair.
Then back at Karen.
His grocery bag lay on the patio beside a carton of eggs that had rolled halfway beneath the table.
“What did you just say?”
Karen lowered the paintbrush.
“You heard me.”
And for the first time since he had stepped outside, Daniel wasn’t thinking about the chair.
He was thinking about his wife.
Linda.
And why, exactly, she would have sent Karen into their backyard with a can of paint.
