Not to mention, I lived in fear of my kitchen sink since it had last exploded. YouTube tutorials helped me stop the leak, and I cleaned the mess thoroughly, but I wasn’t convinced my fix would last.
Worse, the appearance of Virginia Bonnie Black had me reconsidering my side hustle completely, or at least taking a little time off.
I’d lost a lot of sleep trying to figure out what to do about her, and I’d still come up empty. If I stopped baking the same day Virginia came snooping, that would surely raise suspicions. But if she beat the delivery to the restaurant some morning, she could badger the driver into revealing the pickup location—i.e. my house.
So, how could I safely get the orders to the restaurant? I couldn’t exactly show up with the pastries myself.
Why was everything so fucking complicated?
I dressed for work with the speed of a sloth, then trudged downstairs, keys in hand. At least I made a reliable paycheck from Chez Margot, and had the most patient boss on earth. As long as I showed up and made delicious pastries, I’d have the job as long as I wanted.
A steady beeping reached my ears from beyond the front door. A backup beeper on a delivery truck, perhaps? But I hadn’t ordered anything, and it wasn’t trash day. Maybe the truck was at Ilona’s or another neighbor’s house.
I stepped onto the porch and stared at the nonsensical scene before me.
A tow truck sat in my driveway, a few feet from my SUV’s bumper, and a man with a clipboard stood beside it. He glanced briefly in my direction, grimaced, then turned away.
Confusion clouded my thoughts as I bumbled down the steps and across the lawn.
A handful of neighbors lingered on street corners with dogs on leashes or pretended to tie their shoes on nearby porches.
I focused on the man affixing giant metal chains to my car. “Excuse me,” I called. “I didn’t order a tow truck.” My SUV ran fine. It was only a few years old, and my closest confidant aside from Alicia. No one was taking her anywhere on my watch, except me.
The man didn’t respond, and a moment later the back end of my BMW rose several inches off the ground.
“Hey! Stop! What are you doing?” I screamed.
He finally huffed a sigh and turned to stare me down. A patch on the chest of his work shirt indicated his name was Al. He looked over his shoulder and offered a bland expression, clearly illustrating his irritation.
I imagined whacking him with my purse, then checked to see if any of the neighbors had their phones out. Thankfully no one was filming.
“Sorry,” I said, as the gears of the machine quieted. “I think you’ve made a mistake. This is my SUV, and that’s my house.” I pointed over my shoulder, but he didn’t track the movement with his eyes.
Instead, he continued to stare, bored, at me.
“There’s nothing wrong with the vehicle,” I vowed. “And you can see it’s parked perfectly legally. So, you can put it down now.”
Al turned away, apparently having heard enough. “’Fraid not,” he said. The low tenor of his voice was rough, audibly affected by a decade or two of smoking. “I’ve got orders from the bank to bring this one in. Just doing my job.”
I frowned, thrown for a prolonged beat by his comment. “What bank?”
He ripped a page off his clipboard and handed it to me. “You can collect your stuff from impound.”
“But—”
He gripped the bill of his ball cap and tugged it down in goodbye.
My eyes jerked to the paper. The mass of words jumbled in my head.
My car was three years old, and we always paid off our auto loans within thirty-six months. Why would the bank order a repossession? The thought barely registered before the answer presented itself.
The groan that left my chest was zombie horror worthy.
“Robert,” I seethed.
Apparently he hadn’t made a payment since I’d asked for a divorce. A quarter year from owning the vehicle, and he’d just stopped making payments to spite me.
Why would he do anything half decent when he was such a piece of gum on my shoe?
