The Landscaper

The black watch sat on the workbench, a dead eye staring up at the ceiling joists. I couldn't leave it off. Harrison would log the non-compliance. He would build a file.

I picked it up, the silicone band cold against my sweating skin, and fastened it around my wrist. The tiny green sensor light flared back to life, instantly transmitting my racing pulse to my brother's phone. I took five deep, slow breaths, forcing the numbers down through sheer architectural discipline.

Structure over panic. Foundation over fear.

I walked up to the main floor just as the doorbell chimed. A heavy, aggressive sound that didn't match the polite Tudor aesthetics of the neighborhood.

I checked my reflection in the hallway mirror. The panic attack had left me pale, but my expression was neutral. The capable, invisible sister.

I opened the heavy oak door.

Marcus Finch stood on the porch, a clipboard tucked under one muscular arm. He was built like a stone wall, weather-beaten and solid. The name 'Finch Landscaping' was embroidered on his faded canvas jacket. He was a few years older than me, but the lines around his eyes made him look fifty.

"Ms. Vance," he said, his voice as rough as gravel. No 'Eleanor.' No neighborly warmth. Just business.

"Marcus. Thank you for coming." I stepped back to let him in, but he stayed rooted to the porch.

"I prefer to stay outside," he said flatly. "We can walk the property line. Discuss the retaining wall."

The Finches used to live three houses down. We used to play together in the summers before 1998. After that winter, they moved away. Marcus's refusal to cross the threshold wasn't professional courtesy; it was visceral disgust.

I grabbed my coat and followed him down the front steps. The February air was biting, the ground hard and unyielding.

Marcus walked with long, purposeful strides, his boots crunching on the frozen grass. He didn't look at the house. He looked actively away from it.

"The grade here is slipping," he said, pointing to the slope near the east gable. The wall containing the master suite. "Water is pooling against the foundation. We need to install a French drain and build up the retaining wall by at least two feet."

"That sounds right," I said, my eyes tracking his gaze. He still wouldn't look up. "Julian mentioned the brickwork might need repointing on this side."

Marcus stopped. He slowly turned his head, finally looking up at the second floor. His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering under his beard.

"Your brother Arthur," Marcus said, the name sounding like a curse in his mouth. "He signed off on this work?"

"Arthur doesn't control the renovations. I do."

Marcus let out a short, humorless laugh. "Arthur controls everything in this town. Just like your father did."

The bitterness in his voice was raw, untempered by the decades that had passed. It wasn't just the lingering resentment of a family that had lost a child while the wealthy neighbors thrived. It was something sharper. More specific.

"Marcus," I said, my voice dropping, dropping the professional facade. "What happened between our families?"

He looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time. His eyes were cold, assessing. "You honestly don't remember?"

"I was ten. I remember Tommy... I remember he drowned."

"They said he drowned," Marcus corrected, his voice dangerously quiet. "They never found him. Just his coat by the lake."

He turned back to the house, staring directly at the second-floor windows. The master suite. The cedar closet.

He looked at the window. 'That room used to be bigger, didn't it?'