“But he told me he spent twelve hundred dollars on the wood,” I said.
Arthur turned back to his trunk and set the cables inside, his movements slow and deliberate.
“There are some things a neighbor sees but keeps to himself until he is asked,” he said.
He did not look up as he slammed the trunk lid shut.
Gary was standing on the front porch now, his hand raised in a slow, reassuring wave.
I got into the Buick and started the engine, sixty-two dollars of gas sitting in the tank.
I backed down the driveway, watching Gary’s shape grow smaller in the rearview mirror as he kept waving from the steps.
The next morning, the smell of grease and burnt toast filled the Greenville Diner. Arthur sat across from me in a vinyl booth, his faded blue baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. He stirred two packets of sugar into his black coffee, the spoon clinking against the thick ceramic mug with a steady, rhythmic sound.
“I didn’t want to stir up trouble, Jenna,” he said, clearing his throat before he took a sip.
