“The downstairs windows are dark,” she said.

“The upstairs one’s lit.”

Daniel Harris leaned toward the windshield.

The lawn at 1427 Maplewood had been raked.

The front walk was swept clean, its edges squared off where concrete met dirt, and the two trash bins at the curb sat with their lids on straight.

“Somebody takes care of that yard,” he said.

“Or somebody wants it to look taken care of.” María pulled the key, and the engine went silent.

She touched the radio clip on her shoulder.