I felt a cold sensation move through my chest.
"What happened?"
Eleanor sighed.
"He went on vacation. When he came back, the truck was gone."
I stared.
"Did he get it back?"
She looked away.
"Not without paying a lot of money."
I felt anger rise.
"How much?"
"I don't remember exactly."
She hesitated.
"But he said the storage charges kept increasing."
I looked toward the blue Silverado.
Then toward the street.
Eleanor continued.
"Patricia told everyone he should've followed the rules."
I was quiet.
Then I asked, "Do you remember his name?"
She nodded.
"Arthur Jennings."
I took out my phone.
"Would you be comfortable giving me his contact information if he agrees?"
She thought about it.
Then nodded.
"I'll ask him."
I thanked her.
She smiled.
Then stepped toward her house.
Before leaving, she turned.
"Marcus?"
I looked up.
"Yes?"
Her expression was serious.
"Don't let Patricia convince you this was your fault."
I swallowed.
For a moment, the words struck deeper than she probably realized.
Then I nodded.
"I won't."
She walked home.
I carried the dinner inside.
And that evening, while I ate Eleanor's homemade casserole at my kitchen table, I began wondering how many other people had been frightened into surrendering property or money because Patricia spoke as though nobody could question her.
Arthur Jennings called the following morning.
He was sixty-three, a retired postal worker who had lived in Cedar Ridge for fourteen years.
His voice was careful.
"Eleanor says you had trouble with the HOA."
I gave a humorless laugh.
"That's one way to describe it."
He was silent.
Then asked, "Did they tow your truck?"
"They tried."
A pause.
"Did you get it back?"
"Yes. The towing supervisor stopped the removal."
Arthur exhaled.
"You're lucky."
I looked toward the Silverado through the window.