The Appraiser’s Knock

The front doorbell rang twenty minutes after Officer Price’s cruiser backed out of the driveway. I expected Denise, back to spin another story about neighborhood noise, but the man on the porch wore a blue poly-blend button-down, khaki slacks, and thick rubber-soled oxfords. He held an iPad encased in heavy rubber and a zippered leather portfolio under one arm. Sweat soaked the collar of his shirt.

“Adrian Foster?” he asked, checking a slip of paper.

“Yes.”

“Elliot Crane. Real estate valuation services.” He looked past my shoulder toward the hallway, then glanced toward the shared masonry wall separating our driveway from 2191. “Sorry to bother you on a weekend. I saw the patrol car leaving when I turned onto the street. Mrs. Harrow canceled her eleven o’clock walk-through five minutes before I pulled up. Said there was an emergency utility hazard on the property.”

I kept my hand on the edge of the screen door. “There was an issue. It’s handled.”

“Right.” Elliot didn’t leave. He adjusted his glasses with one finger, shifting his weight on the aggregate concrete. “I’m conducting the commercial refinance appraisal for the Harrow portfolio. Four parcels. The underwriter flagged a boundary question regarding parcel two, your boundary. I noticed the wall placement from the street doesn’t line up with the county GIS overlay in my packet.”

“The wall is straight,” I said. “Six feet tall, built in 2004.”

“Not the wall itself. The access easement.” Elliot cleared his throat, hesitating. “I just need to verify the operational schedule for the shared water amenity.”

A dry desert gust blew across the porch, smelling of hot asphalt.

“What shared water amenity?” I asked.

“The pool.” Elliot tilted his iPad screen toward me, hedged behind a flat, bureaucratic calm. “The executive retreat package lists an unrestricted recreational access agreement between 2187 and 2191. It provides ninety percent amenity parity for short-term guests. My instructions were to inspect the coping, pump capacity, and mechanical log.”

My jaw tightened so hard my teeth ached. “That pool belongs to my family. There is no agreement. There is no parity.”

Elliot stared at me, his eyes blinking behind his lenses. The calm vanished from his shoulders. He set the iPad down on the stucco ledge beside the door, unzipped the black portfolio, and peeled back a clear divider.

He turned the printed pages toward the screen. High-gloss photographs filled the sheet: my travertine pavers, my turquoise water, and Jordan’s yellow floating basketball hoop bobbing by the steps, labeled as an exclusive executive guest amenity.