It was Arthur Reed. He was sixty-eight, a retired security investigator who had worked for the county sheriff’s department before his knees gave out. He didn’t look at me, keeping his eyes fixed on a shelf of light brown sugar. His eyes darted toward the end of the aisle, checking the reflection in the glass of the freezer cases behind us.
“Check your rear bumper, Ruth,” he whispered, his head barely moving. “The passenger side.”
“Arthur?” I said, my hand freezing on the handle of my cart.
“Don’t look at me,” he said, reaching for a blue box of salt. “Just look under the bumper when you get home. Do it after dark, when the kitchen lights are off.”
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
“Because someone wanted to know exactly how long you stayed at the library yesterday,” he said.
“How could they know that?” I asked, my fingers tightening on the handle of my cart.
“Just look under the bumper,” Arthur said, his voice barely a breath. “And don’t tell Daniel. Not yet.”
He pushed his cart past mine without another word, his boots squeaking on the white linoleum as he turned toward the dairy section. I stood by the five-pound bags of flour for a long minute, the hum of the freezer cases filling my ears until my fingers felt numb.
