Past experience had shown me how quickly reports vanished when Leonard Crowe’s name appeared, so instead I walked three houses down to the Crowe home. I passed pristine hedges and a driveway so spotless it looked ceremonial. Leonard stood there polishing his SUV with the intensity of someone accustomed to unquestioned authority.
“Leonard,” I said, keeping my tone level because anger had already failed me, “your son jumped the curb again and destroyed my lawn.”
He delayed acknowledging me, as if responding too quickly might imply parity. When he finally looked up, his sunglasses concealed his eyes but not the practiced patience of a man skilled at dismissing others without overt hostility.
“Elliot,” he replied, sighing gently, “Julian drives a high-performance vehicle, and sometimes things happen, you know how young men are, full of energy, still learning restraint.”
“He’s not learning anything,” I said, a tightness forming behind my ribs, “this is the sixth time in three weeks.”
Leonard stepped closer, lowering his voice into something almost sympathetic—which somehow made it worse.