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Since he’s not far away, I go ahead and resume stacking the smaller, lighter boxes outside the door. Ms. Mildred not only had a love for collecting books, but the woman was also mug crazy. She loved collecting the ones shaped like animal faces. Then there’s her purses. She had one to match every outfit along with the shoes to boot. She loved looking good. Even if it was only to make the walk to the mailbox or to take out a bag of trash.
Bobby walks up as I’m placing another stack of shoe boxes in the breezeway.
“Had quite the collection, didn’t she?”
“Right.”
He scratches the top of his bald head. Bobby is a middle-aged, balding plumber. Married with a son in college and his daughter had her first baby this past summer. He’s the last person you’d expect to belong to my little murder discussion club, but he heard my podcast and said it sounded interesting. He’s really knowledgeable about the area, considering his job. He’s shared some wild stories about some of the odd things he’s come across, going into people’s basements and crawling under their houses.
“All this goes to the church. I really appreciate your wife putting together that list of donation locations.”
“She was happy to help.”
The two of us work diligently to get the first load ready. His son is joining him to get the heavier items, like the bedroom furniture and the couch. Some of his friends are taking the big stuff. I’m glad to see it go to use and not to one of those overpriced ‘charity’ shops that care more about profit than helping people who truly need it.
“Are you sure I can’t get you guys a pizza or something as a thank you?”
“We’re good. Donna will kill me if I cheat on our diet,” Bobby tells me as his son laughs.
“Yeah, don’t let Mom hear any talk of carbs.” He snickers and punches his dad playfully in the gut.
“Okay. See you Saturday for our meeting.” I wave them off but overhear Bobby Jr. whispering about how hot I am and asking his dad if he knows if I’m single as they head to his truck.
I snort and go to change my clothes and wash up. They may not have wanted pizza, but I’m starving. I can’t believe we got everything cleared out as easily and quickly as we did. The three of us made a great team. Donna trained them well.
I say bye to Whiskers and grab my purse. “Be good and watch over my fishies. Just don’t try to eat them,” I warn her. I have three goldfish mainly because I love the soothing sound of their tank. It helps me fall asleep at night.
As I’m walking to my car, I spot something sticking under my windshield wiper. I glance around the lot. Bobby and his son are long gone, and I don’t see anyone lurking around. It looks too small to be a fast-food coupon or flyer.
I’ve heard all the stories about how if there’s a note or money on your car that it’s a ploy to kidnap women to traffic them. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, but I’m skeptical.
Maybe Bobby’s son decided to shoot his shot, and the note has his number on it. Wouldn’t be the first time a guy was too shy to approach me.
Grabbing the piece of paper, I unfold it and scan the note.
Written in a messy scrawl are the words.
‘I’m watching you.’
I would suspect Jacob, but last I heard, he’s moved back to Florida. I’ve taken great measures to keep him out of my life. Crumpling the paper, I shove it in my purse. That biker from before. Has to be him. He’s fucking with me. Too bad for him, I don’t scare that easily. All his silly tactics do is fuel my fire to push harder. It means people are listening. I shouldn’t be scared. I should be proud of myself for fighting for justice for my sister.
I make it halfway to my destination when the whump whump of a flat tire stops me.
Perfect.
I pull to the side of the road and remember I never replaced my spare from the last time this happened. They’ve been doing a lot of construction in my neighborhood. Probably ran over another nail. There’s no way I’m bothering Bobby for his assistance. I don’t want his wife getting annoyed with me.
Shit.
I scan my contacts, debating who I should call. Definitely not my ex. I don’t even know why I still have him as a contact. He wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire after I broke off our engagement, even though he was the one who cheated on me. I look up as a black tow truck with gold lettering on the sides pulls off in front of me.
Thank God for small favors, though I’m sure sometimes they cruise the highway looking for work. Hell, they probably drive around dropping nails and screws. I know my paranoid thought process sounds crazy, but life is stranger than fiction.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I mutter as the guy from earlier struts toward me wearing a shit-eating grin. He’s got on one of those blueish gray shirts with a name patch over the pocket unbuttoned over a white tee. Guess he didn’t lie about his name being Trenton. He has this cocky strut about him, too. Like he knows that women find his dirty blonde hair that’s slightly wavy and light facial scruff appealing. He’s kind of got that grungy Charlie Hunam look going for him.
Not bad to look at.
Not bad at all.
