I held my phone out so he could see the screen. I pointed to the exact paragraph about roof flashing and structural integrity. Then I pointed to the section on permit requirements for this specific zip code.

“You’re missing the flashing requirements for this pitch,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “That’s code violation number one. You’re also using the wrong shingles for this area’s snow load, which is violation number two. And the lack of a permit? That’s fraud in this state.”

The silence that followed was heavy. The birds were chirping in the oak tree, and a car drove by down the street, but on that porch, the air felt like it was freezing over. The man’s smile didn’t just fade. It vanished, and his skin took on a gray, sickly cast.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he stammered, clutching his clipboard to his chest. “I just thought…”

“You thought she was an easy mark,” I said. “But you’re standing on my property now.”

He tried to backpedal, literally stepping down the stairs and tripping over his own boots. “I have a crew waiting,” he said, his voice cracking. “I can just go.”

I didn’t let him go that easy. I had one more thing to say, the thing I had been holding back since I saw him check his watch. I leaned over the railing, close enough that he could see the fury in my eyes.

“I know exactly where your truck is registered,” I said. “And I have the sheriff on speed dial.”

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t even look at Mama. He just turned and scrambled toward his truck, his tires spitting gravel as he pulled away from the curb. Mama stood there for a minute, her purse still in her hands, her knuckles white.

“He seemed so nice,” she whispered.

I didn’t answer. I just walked over and took the purse from her, placing it gently on the hallway table. We went inside and made a pot of tea, the same kind we always have on Tuesday afternoons. We sat in the kitchen, and for a long time, the only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall.

I felt a little guilty. I had been so focused on the inspector, on the law, on the numbers, that I hadn’t noticed how tired she really looked. She wasn’t just old. She was lonely. She wanted someone to come by and talk to her, even if he was a crook. That was the real wound, wasn’t it? That she was so hungry for a little bit of attention that she almost gave away her life savings.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” I said, reaching across the table to hold her hand.

She squeezed my fingers, and her grip was stronger than I remembered. “You were right, dear. You’re always right about these things.”