Chapter 7: The Woman from the Other Side of Town
Her name was Roberta, and she had lived three streets over from Denise's previous address for eleven years.
I messaged her back within the hour.
She responded immediately, as if she'd been waiting.
*I saw the post in a mutual group,* she wrote.
*I don't want to get into it publicly.
Can we talk by phone?*
We spoke the next morning, while Carrie was at work and the house was quiet.
Roberta's voice was measured and careful — the voice of someone who had thought about this for a long time and learned to say it without shaking.
"She lived on our street for four years," Roberta said.
"It started the same way you're describing.
Small things.
A tool here, a dish there.
Always with a good reason.
Always very friendly about it."
"When did it change?"
"When my husband got sick." A pause.
"He was in the hospital for six weeks.
Denise offered to help.
She was wonderful, actually — brought food, checked on me, offered to run errands.
I was grateful.
I wasn't thinking clearly."
"What happened?"
"She borrowed my husband's camera.
A good one — he'd used it for thirty years, took it everywhere.
She said she wanted to photograph her granddaughter's birthday party.
I said yes." Roberta stopped.
"He came home from the hospital asking for it.
She told me it had been stolen from her car.
Showed me a police report."
"Was it real?"
"I don't know.
I never pushed.
My husband was still recovering and I didn't have the energy for a fight." Her voice was even.
"He passed away fourteen months later.
The camera was never recovered."
I sat with that for a moment.
"I'm sorry," I said.
"Thank you." She took a breath.
"The reason I'm telling you this isn't to make you feel worse about a mixer.
It's because I wish someone had told me earlier what she was.
Before I trusted her.
Before my husband's camera was gone." She paused.
"When I saw your post, I thought — someone is finally paying attention.
Someone is writing it down."
"I am," I said.
"Good." Her voice steadied.
"I'll send you what I have.
The timeline.
What she said.
What I said.
The police report number — you can look it up yourself and see what it actually says."
"What does it say?"
"It says the camera was reported stolen.
It doesn't say from a car.
It doesn't say where or when.
It's the vaguest report I've ever read." A beat.
"My neighbor's son is a police officer.
He looked at it for me.
He said it read like someone who wanted a document, not an investigation."
I wrote that down.
"Roberta, would you be willing to share any of this with a court?
If it came to that?"
She didn't hesitate.
"Yes.
I've been willing for three years.
I just didn't know who to tell."
After we hung up, I sat at the table for a long time.
The mixer was sitting on the counter.
Roy had called that morning — the repair was done.
I could pick it up anytime.
I thought about driving over to get it.
About carrying it back in and setting it where it belonged.
I thought about my mother using it every Sunday.
The sound it made.
The smell of whatever she was baking.
How she'd let me lick the beater when I was small and then pretend she hadn't noticed.
I picked up my phone and called Susan Hale's office.
"I have new information," I told her assistant.
"I need fifteen minutes with her before the hearing."
The hearing was in nine days.
That afternoon, Denise knocked on my door again.
I didn't open it.
She knocked a second time.
Then a third.
Then she said, through the door: "Carol, I want to talk about settling this before it goes to court.
I think we can work something out."
I stood on my side of the door and said nothing.
Her footsteps crossed the porch.
Then the grass.
Then they were gone.
May you like
I went back to the table and wrote down the time and what she'd said.
Everything was going in the folder.
