Through the store windows a clerk was stacking pumpkins in a cardboard bin, orange against orange.

“So the forged lease works,” I said.

“For now, ma’am.” Hale’s voice was flat.

“I hate to say it, but the utilities make it a landlord-tenant dispute in the eyes of the county.”

I looked at Rachel.

She already had her pen out, uncapped, pointed at me like a small baton.

“Ask him what happens Monday,” she said.

“Ask him the exact word.”