For the first time in almost a year, Denise looked scared.
“Her name is Sabrina.”
I glanced at the frozen video.
“What does your sister have to do with what happened to my car?”
“Nothing.”
“That clearly isn’t true.”
Denise rubbed both hands over her face.
Then, finally, she said,
“I borrowed her truck.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
She didn’t answer.
I already knew.
“Two weeks ago?”
Denise closed her eyes.
That was all the confirmation I needed.
Suddenly, every strange thing that had happened over the previous year felt different.
The trash cans.
The missing hose.
The cut hose.
Every time I had questioned whether I was imagining things.
Every time I wondered if I was unfairly blaming Denise simply because we hated each other.
Now she was sitting in my kitchen, and I finally had my answer.
“You painted my car.”
She opened her eyes.
“I was angry.”
