Chapter 2: The Gray Sedan Across the Street
For the first few days, I worked harder than I had ever worked in my life.
I woke at five-thirty, prepared breakfast, cleaned the downstairs rooms, washed laundry, and organized Opal's paperwork.
She liked her coffee strong, her toast lightly browned, and her newspaper folded precisely beside her plate.
"Rebecca, you've put the sugar in the wrong cabinet.""
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hargrove.""
"Don't apologize. Just remember where it belongs.""
She tapped the cabinet with one finger.
Then she added, "My late husband used to put everything in the wrong place. Drove me absolutely crazy.""
I laughed.
It was the first time I'd laughed without forcing myself.
Opal had a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue. She didn't enjoy being treated like a helpless old woman.
When I offered to carry her laundry basket, she snatched one handle.
"I'm seventy-four, not one hundred and four.""
"Understood.""
"And don't call me ma'am every three minutes. It makes me feel like I'm attending a military funeral.""
"Yes, Mrs. Hargrove.""
She narrowed her eyes.
I smiled.
She smiled back.
By the end of the first week, we had developed a comfortable routine.
I cooked dinner. She told me stories about her late husband, Walter, and their years running a manufacturing company.
They had built their business from a small workshop into a profitable regional operation.
Walter had died seven years earlier.
Since then, Opal had lived alone in the house.
One afternoon, while organizing her office, I noticed several unpaid invoices mixed with bank statements.
"Mrs. Hargrove, do you mind if I organize these by date?""
"Please do. My accountant has become useless.""
I sat at her desk and began sorting the paperwork.
Within twenty minutes, I noticed something strange.
Several payments had been duplicated.
Others had been transferred to an unfamiliar consulting company.
I checked the dates.
The transactions were spread across three months.
"Mrs. Hargrove?""
She appeared in the doorway holding a cup of tea.
"What is it?""
"Have you reviewed these payments?""
She glanced at the papers.
"My accountant handles those.""
"I think someone may have charged you twice.""
She put down her cup.
"How much?""
I pointed to the figures.
"Just under twenty-eight thousand dollars.""
Her eyebrows lifted.
"Are you certain?""
"I haven't verified every invoice, but these amounts match exactly.""
She pulled out a chair.
"Show me.""
I explained what I had found, comparing the invoice numbers with the bank entries.
She listened carefully.
When I finished, she leaned back.
"Where did you learn to do that?""
"I ran a medical supply company.""
"Before prison?""
"Yes.""
She looked at me for a long moment.
Then she said, "You should never have been doing housekeeping.""
I forced a smile.
"Housekeeping is honest work.""
"Of course it is. But so is financial management.""
She gathered the documents.
"I'll call my accountant tomorrow.""
That evening, I noticed the gray sedan.
It was parked across the street, facing Opal's house.
The windows were tinted.
I assumed the driver was visiting someone nearby.
But the following afternoon, it was there again.
And the afternoon after that.
On the fourth day, I saw a man standing beside it.
He was wearing a dark jacket and holding a phone.
When I opened the front curtains, he raised the phone toward the house.
I stepped away.
My stomach tightened.
I had spent four years learning that strangers could become dangerous very quickly.
I told myself it was probably nothing.
Still, I checked the locks twice before going to bed.
The next morning, I mentioned the car while preparing breakfast.
"There's been a gray sedan parked outside.""
Opal continued spreading butter on her toast.
"Has there?""
"Yes. I've seen it several times.""
"Perhaps someone is visiting the neighbors.""
"Maybe.""
She took a sip of coffee.
"Rebecca, if someone wants to sit in a car all afternoon, let them. They might discover how boring this neighborhood is.""
I nodded.
But her expression had changed.
She wasn't frightened.
She looked irritated.
Later that day, while vacuuming the upstairs hallway, I heard her speaking on the telephone in her study.
"No. I told you I wasn't ready.""
A pause.
"Because I said so. You don't get to decide when I open that door.""
Another pause.
Then her voice dropped.
"Not while she's living here.""
I stopped moving.
The vacuum continued humming.
"Who are you talking about?"" I whispered to myself.
Before I could move away, Opal opened the study door.
"Rebecca?""
I nearly dropped the vacuum.
"Yes?""
"Could you bring me the blue folder from the office?""
"Of course.""
She watched me for a second.
"Everything all right?""
"Yes.""
"Good.""
She returned to her study and closed the door.
That evening, we ate roasted chicken and potatoes.
Opal was unusually quiet.
After dinner, she asked me to bring her a box of old photographs from the upstairs storage room.
I found it beneath a stack of blankets.
Inside were pictures of a younger Opal, her husband Walter, and several men standing outside what looked like a factory.
One photograph caught my attention.
Walter stood beside a tall man with dark hair.
Between them was a younger version of a man I recognized.
I stared at the picture.
It was Trevor.
My husband.
The photograph slipped from my fingers.
I picked it up and checked again.
There was no mistaking him.
I carried the box downstairs.
Opal was sitting by the fireplace.
"Did you find everything?""
I placed the photograph on the table.
"Mrs. Hargrove, who is this man?""
She looked at the picture.
For several seconds, she didn't speak.
Then she slowly lifted her eyes to mine.
"Where did you find that?""
"In the box upstairs.""
She took the photograph.
Her fingers tightened around its edges.
"Rebecca, I need to ask you something.""
"What?""
"Did your husband ever tell you he had business dealings with a company called Hargrove Industrial?""
I shook my head.
"No. Why?""
Opal turned the photograph over.
There was a handwritten date on the back.
And beneath it, a sentence that made my blood run cold.
"Trevor must never know what happened to the original records.""
I looked at her.
"Mrs. Hargrove, what records?""
She folded the photograph carefully.
"That's what I've been trying to find out for seven years.""
Then she walked toward the locked cabinet in her study.
And when she opened it, I saw a familiar company name on the first document.
May you like
Hale Medical Supplies.
My company.
