“Hey,” Brent called. “You must be Daniel Mercer.”
“That’s right.
He went out and approached the fence, but not over it. I’ve noticed that. At that moment, I appreciated it.
“Brent Whitaker,” he said. “This is my wife, Laurel. We bought Rollins’ place.”
“Welcome to the neighborhood,” I said.
Laurel smiled. “It’s beautiful here. So peaceful.”
“It could be.”
Brent looked around as if he were inspecting a property in the complex. “We are thinking of making some improvements. Nothing too crazy. Just clean things up, maybe add a little water, trails, a little bit of a sense of retreat.”
I rested my hook against my shoulder. “A lot of room for it.”
He looked at the stone fence. “Is this the limit?”
“Yes, sir. This fence has marked it longer than anyone here who has been breathing.”
“It’s good to know,” he said, but he only looked at him for maybe three seconds.
