“I’ve been handling it myself,” he said. “Got a tip this property has been helping certain people. Hiding them.”
I heard the word hiding and understood instantly how men like him rewrite every act of refuge as theft.
“My husband used this place as storage property,” I said. “I’m here to assess it before deciding whether to sell.”
Brendan stared at me for a long moment. Then he smiled again, and this time the expression was openly ugly.
“You’re lying.”
I took out my phone and held it where he could see the screen.
“Take one more step toward this door and I call the sheriff and report trespassing.”
For a moment I truly thought he might push past me anyway. His hands opened and closed once at his sides. His body leaned forward the way a dog leans before deciding whether to bite.
Then he stepped back.
Not because he respected me. Because he was making a different decision.
“You know what happens to people who lie to me?” he asked quietly.
The change in volume made the threat sharper.
“Bad things. Accidents. You seem like a nice lady. Wouldn’t want something unfortunate to happen out on these roads.”
My finger hovered over the call button.
“Are you threatening me?”