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.”
I laughed once.
There was nothing funny about it.
“You covered my entire car in paint because I complained about your dog?”
“It wasn’t only about that.”
“Then what
