I thought I had taught my mother better than to open the door to strangers, but I guess some habits from her generation are just too hard to break. She always wants to be polite. She always wants to believe the best in people, even when they pull up in a beat-up truck with no company logo and a greasy smile.

I was just coming around the side of the house with a basket of laundry when I heard him. He was standing right on the front porch, leaning in a little too close to her. He had that oily, practiced way of talking that makes my skin crawl.

“Don’t you worry about a thing, sweetheart,” he was saying, and he checked his watch like his time was worth more than gold. “I can have this roof patched up by Friday. It’s just eleven thousand seven hundred and forty-two dollars, cash. No sense in paying the city for those expensive permits. It just slows everything down.”

I felt my jaw tighten. I have spent thirty years working for the county, inspecting everything from new builds to old barns. I know exactly how these people operate. They look for the houses with the faded siding or the ones where they think a little old lady lives alone. They bank on the fact that she won’t ask questions.

Mama was reaching for her purse. She was actually reaching for it.

My heart did a little somersault in my chest, and I dropped the laundry basket right there on the grass. The sound of the plastic hitting the ground made them both jump.

“Mama,” I said, and my voice sounded sharper than I intended. She turned, looking a little startled, and the man shifted his weight. He didn’t look worried yet. He looked annoyed, like I was just another neighbor getting in the way of his dinner plans.

“This is my daughter,” Mama said, trying to smooth things over. “She’s just visiting for the afternoon.”

The man gave me a little nod, but he didn’t take his eyes off the purse. “Nice to meet you, ma’am. Like I was telling your mother, we’re doing a special today. It’s a real steal.”

I walked up the porch steps, slow and steady. I didn’t say a word to him. I just pulled out my phone and tapped the screen a few times, pulling up the digital copies of the local building codes I keep for reference. I’ve seen a thousand of these men. They all have the same twitch in their eyes when they realize they’ve picked the wrong house.

“Eleven thousand,” I said, looking right at his clipboard. “And no permits?”

He chuckled, a dry, nervous sound. “Well, for a job this small, it’s mostly just paperwork. Nobody ever checks the small ones.”