“Because I’ve been keeping a file, ma’am. I was your dad’s friend for 30 years. He asked me once to keep an eye on things over here if anything ever happened to him. I’ve been documenting everything for years.”
“Mr. Harold…”
“Just Harold’s fine.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He picked up a cookie, examined it, then put it back down.
“Because you’re going to need it. Document everything, Samantha. Every conversation. Every look. Get it time-stamped. Don’t confront her. Don’t yell. Just record it.”
I nodded slowly.
From inside the house, I heard a crayon stop moving.
Harold stood up, and tipped his cap at me. Halfway down the walk, he turned back.
“And keep parking that Chevy right where it is. That’s your driveway.”
I did. What else was I supposed to do? Park it on the road?
***
That night, I sat on the edge of Olivia’s bed, tucking her quilt under her chin the way she liked.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, baby.”
“I’ve been thinking,” my daughter started.
“That’s dangerous.”
She giggled, then went quiet. Her eyes had that focused look she got when she was working something out.
“I have an idea,” she said.
“About what?”
“About the lady.”
