It feels bizarre to have cops coming and going freely at your home. That`s the kind of thing you really only expect to see in movies. Add to that the fact that Raesport is a quiet town, and it seems preposterous for something like this to happen. Officer Milton has been keeping me updated on the investigation- more of a treasure hunt, really- and it would seem that some drug lord has been using Soward`s mansion as a satellite storage facility. I suppose that when your home is harboring a cache of drugs and related paraphernalia, and a lot of it, it only makes sense that it would become Grand Central Station for the local PD. I haven`t been able to accomplish anything with Bruce sniffing around and the officers piling things into boxes for evidence.

　　But the whole thing has me beat. The physical labor over the last couple of weeks is one kind of tired that is difficult to understate. The oddly emotional frazzling of your house being taken over by a crime investigation pre-dating your tenancy is another kind of exhaustion. Strip away the frustration of the interruption, strip away the invasion of my privacy, strip away the interruption to the flow of my routine, and I realize that there is a percolating anxiety about what this drug seizure might mean for me when the drug owner comes back to look for his stash. My understanding is that most people in that sort of business like their firearms and weapons more than the average person, and I would imagine that losing a few hundred thousand dollars worth of merchandise won`t sit well with them.

　　"We`ve put out warrants for all the people in those fake documents," Milton informs me. "We don`t know how successful they will be as we don`t know if the names we have are real or fake, but the good news is that we have pictures." He says that so cheerfully. It sounds delusional with a very real and present danger to my person that comes from all of this&. It feels like I`m staring down the barrel of a gun.

　　"Thank you for the update," I say with as much false aplomb as I can muster.

　　"Lottie, I realize that this might all be upsetting to you. But it doesn`t seem likely that the culprits involved in trafficking the cocaine are anywhere nearby."

　　"Except for the man playing the hobo on that street corner," I remind him.

　　"Yes, and we are looking for him. There`s an old collection of closed businesses that`s a known haunt for homeless people. If we can`t find him on that street corner by tomorrow, we`ll conduct a hunt through those shops. The warrants were put out quietly, so unless he`s tracking that sort of thing, he`ll stick with his usual routine, and we will find him." A small smile is offered as a thin assurance. It does very little to assuage my fears however, and the way his smile seems to falter indicates that he likely recognizes as much.

　　"Thank you, officer."

　　***

　　My night was fitful. I kept having dreams of that man on the street corner, a strange merging of fear and pity in the way dream me interacted with dream him. He entreated me for help, and I couldn`t help but wonder if the drugs in Soward`s mansion were even his. Perhaps he was merely a mule for a violent crime boss; maybe he was just another victim. Maybe he`d been promised a new life in the states if he did this one job, only to find that his boss cared very little about keeping promises, and now "Juan" is left to beg on the streets with no legal documentation, no family, no job, no life here. Suffice it to say that dream me was a lot more sympathetic than the real me. Dream me felt sorry for him. Today I return to feeling nothing but fear.

　　I woke up shivering and feeling as though I hadn`t slept at all. Somehow the night was both interminable and not long enough. That was perhaps the first sign that something was off. Then my fingers were trembling so hard that I almost couldn`t light a cooking fire to make breakfast with. I dropped three eggs while trying to crack them to fry! I can`t explain why I feel so rattled. I simply do. Pull it together, Lottie.

　　I take solace in my work. Now that the cops have shut the door on Soward`s mansion for the moment, I am once again alone to focus on shifting furniture and swinging a sledge hammer. Today I plan to finish knocking down the walls of that sitting room where I found the drugs in the first place. The bricks in the fireplace are so old here that they seem likely to crumble under any additional pressure. It occurs to me that bare brick is an odd feature in an upscale Victorian home like this one. In these fancy homes, the brick would be covered with fancy wood facades, plaster, wall paper, marble tiling, some other luxurious material&. Maybe the Sowards liked the look of brick. Or perhaps their showy mansion really was all for show and they couldn`t afford a more richly faced fireplace. Or maybe this fireplace was defaced and the valuable carved wood plundered and sold as an antique in some flea market. It makes sense in a weird way. This house has been vandalized and raped over the years- stolen from isn`t a stretch.

　　Whack&. Crack&. Chink&. Thump&. CRASH!

　　The wall comes down too easily, and a single missed needle falls with the rest of the debris. It`s sleek, sharp, and shiny- dangerous and weirdly attractive for that danger. And it makes me angry. After so long with my home invaded by cops, they still missed things. That was likely inevitable and not their fault, but the fact that I still have to deal with this&. I can`t simply put it behind me. It`s pervasive and inescapable and frustrating and&.

　　It really rattled me. Not sleeping well last night didn`t help. I take a deep breath, willing myself out of the angry anxiety spiral. Maybe it would do me some good to go for a walk outside, screw my head back on straight, get out of this stuffy house with all of its problems and all of its unwanted surprises.

　　It`s a gray day- cloudy with threatening storms on the horizon. The dumpster in the driveway is almost full again. After I clean out the sitting room, I`ll call Jay to have him replace this dumpster with an empty one. The city has been generous, funding the dumpsters and promising to subsidize the building materials I`ll eventually need for the reconstruction part of this project by making my purchases tax free- a reminder that I`m going to have to rebuild after all the demolition. A sharp panic hits my chest at that thought, pinching, squeezing, aching- throwing me back into another anxiety spiral. It`s so much. Too much. What if I fail? What have I done? Why did I think I could do this?Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

　　And then I remember that there is no time limit. And I don`t have to go any faster than I physically can. And even if I can`t finish it on my own, there is help available, and the option of reselling, and no expectations beyond general progress. I can manage to make progress. Technically it is all progress. One day at a time and one project at a time, I march forward. Jay was going to check in with me sometime this week. He`s encouraging to work with, and I need those regular doses of optimism, I think. Just someone coming in to say that I am doing a good job and generally not screwing up too badly.

　　Inhale the anticipatory humidity. Exhale the fear trying to dominate reason.

　　The fear is only minimally rational. The anxiety is unproductive.

　　I sit with my churning thoughts for a moment, systematically rejecting the ones that would paralyze me.

　　My phone rings. Officer Milton (Verified Caller).

　　"Hello?"

　　"Hey, Lottie! I just wanted to let you know that we found that Juan Rodriguez guy. He`s dead. Looks like he ate something toxic."

　　"What happened?!" But despite the surprise, I`m now also feeling cautiously relieved.

　　"Well, we don`t know. I mean we put out the APB for his arrest& oh, maybe thirty-six hours before his estimated time of death?"

　　"What are you implying?"

　　"Well, that`s the thing, Lottie. We don`t really know what to think. What are the odds that he`d eat something poisonous so quickly after the bulletin was sent out? For now, we are ruling it an accident, but we can`t rule out a potential suicide or even something more nefarious."

　　"Murder?!"

　　"Don`t get ahead of us, Lottie. There`s no sense getting worked up about it, but we intend to investigate his death thoroughly in case there is something more to it."

　　"Officer Milton, don`t sugar coat it, why would someone kill him?"

　　There is a poorly stifled sigh on the other end of the line, and I can practically hear Milton trying to decide what to say. "It might be possible that Juan Rodriguez was guarding the drug stashed in your house. And it might be possible that someone was tracking our movement at the police station, caught wind of the warrant and, uh&."

　　"Go on."

　　"Well, if he was a guard, then he failed and got caught. His superiors wouldn`t be happy with him, now would they?"

　　"Enough to kill him?"

　　"If they thought he could give up sensitive information, then, yeah, sure. I mean, this is all just a theoretical brain dump, but when it comes to drug cartels and gangs, yeah. It`s possible."

　　"Then, assuming Juan or whatever his name was murdered for being caught, what-"

　　"I`m going to stop you right there, Lottie. I know what you`re likely worrying about. No one is coming after you. No one will be coming in to try and find their stuff. If someone is paying attention to the Raesport Police Department, they will also be aware of the fact that we confiscated the drugs stashed at Soward`s mansion, and they will be aware of the fact the home is now occupied. They`ll be cutting their losses."

　　"Ok," I offer weakly, and it occurs to me that my grip on the phone pressed to my ear is becoming painful and whitening my knuckles.

　　"You alright, Lottie?"

　　"Fine," I clear my throat and force my fingers to relax. "Yes, I`m fine."

　　"Are you sure? You sound&. You don`t sound like yourself."

　　"It`s all a bit sudden and distressing," I admit, "but I will be fine. I could use some time to process everything is all."

　　"Well, ok then. Let me know if you need anything."

　　"Thank you, officer. I appreciate that."

　　We say our goodbyes and I hang up the phone, my anxieties returning with new relevance and ferocity. I go inside to look for the radio. Either a distraction or a source of information, I will happily accept either in this moment.

　　Click. Tchhhhhhh&.

　　The radio hisses static while I tune it to the local news station. They should be discussing local news stories this time in the morning between segments on the world news and the national news.

　　& thing is clear, with threats to South African commerce disrupting their international trade, we can expect a ripple effect, starting with their trade agreements with the European Union. I`m Artie Jacobs for the world marketplace, BBC news.

　　The radio cuts to a series of self-promotion advertisements. I timed it perfectly, tuning in just as the local news is starting. After a few reports about Hestinia and the greater state, I hear the traffic report, the weather report and this two minute blurb:

　　Local PD in Raesport conducted a raid on a formerly abandoned home, finding over a quarter million dollars worth of cocaine and related paraphernalia. This morning, RPD followed a tip about a suspect, finding him dead in a location frequented by the homeless population. Ruled an accident, police believe the incident to be an unfortunate coincidence that the suspect ingested food laced with rat poison only days after the warrant was issued for his arrest. A group of activists have issued Raesport city hall a soft demand to increase available resources to the homeless population of Raesport in response to what they declared to be a "one hundred percent preventable" death.

　　In Carlton yesterday, wildlife and forests officials are warning that the drought, reducing lakes to marshy ponds, will push predators like mountain lions closer to human populations as they search for an ever-shrinking population of prey to sustain them&.

　　Well, that`s that. An accident. One that might improve the conditions of homeless people at least. And rat poison? Maybe he found a sandwich while dumpster diving. That`s the danger of eating food from dubious sources, but it`s still sad. The great irony is that, in prison, he`d have been fed regular meals. How is it that, as a society, we feed our criminals better than we feed homeless people or food insecure children and families?

　　Sigh. I should get back to work.