When Opal learned that I'd once loved to paint, she showed me a box of watercolors in the linen closet.
The paints had belonged to her late husband.
She said they were gathering dust and somebody ought to use them.
I hesitated.
It felt wrong to touch an object that belonged to someone she had loved.
She pushed the box toward me.
“He won't be using them.”
I painted the view from my bedroom window.
A maple tree.
The fence.
The corner of a birdbath.
My hand trembled at first, and the colors ran into one another.
I kept the page anyway.
I painted again the following week.
One morning Opal found the first picture and asked whether she could put it on the refrigerator.
I said it wasn't very good.
She said she'd asked whether she could display it, not whether I wanted a review.
I laughed and handed her a magnet.
It was nice to have something on the wall that wasn't part of a case.
For several days after Monica's threat, I avoided the front garden.
Opal didn't force me outside.
She asked whether I'd like to help her plant bulbs in the back instead.
We made holes in the soil with a narrow spade.
She showed me which side of each bulb needed to face upward.
I asked whether the flowers would bloom by spring.
“Most of them,” she said.
“Some won't. That's why I plant more than one.”
I laughed at her practical approach.
Afterward, I washed the dirt from my hands and answered a text from Lena.
She'd sent a photograph of her family's dinner.
I sent back one of our garden bed.
For an evening, my phone carried something besides threats and legal updates.
The next morning, I stood in the doorway watching Opal water the flower beds.
She had always seemed fearless to me.
I asked whether Monica's visit had frightened her.
“Of course.”
She put down the hose.
“I don't invite strangers to threaten people I employ.”
“I can leave if you want.”
She stared at me.
“Why would I punish you for someone else's behavior?”
It was such a straightforward question that I couldn't answer.
We talked through a safety plan.
If Monica returned, I would not confront her alone.
We would call for help if she trespassed or threatened anyone.
We would preserve messages and keep the doors locked.
Opal also wanted to tell her closest neighbor what had happened without sharing my entire legal history.
I agreed to that limited explanation.
That Saturday I met my friend Lena for coffee.
She had brought photographs of her children and an extra scarf because the weather had turned cold.
She looked older than the woman I remembered.
So did I, probably.
We began with safe topics.
Her work at the hospital.
My room at Opal's house.
The new bakery across the street.
Eventually she asked what prison had been like.
I told her there were things I wanted to share and other things I wasn't ready to discuss.
She nodded.
“You don't owe me a report.”
Then she said she'd been afraid to write because she didn't know whether I would blame her for believing the verdict.
I took a long moment before responding.
“Did you?”
“Sometimes. I didn't know what to think.”
The honesty hurt.
But I wanted honest friendships more than polished answers.
We sat until our coffee was cold.
When I got back to Opal's, I put Lena's number in my phone under *Friends*.
It was a small category that I hoped would grow.
Monica appeared on a Tuesday afternoon.
I was moving bags of mulch beside Opal’s driveway when a white car stopped near the curb.
My sister stepped out wearing expensive sunglasses.
I recognized our father’s watch before I recognized the expression on her face.
He had given me that watch when I opened my first storefront.
I had stored it in my dresser.
After my arrest, it vanished.
“Rebecca,” Monica said.
I set down the bag.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
She scanned the old house.
“So this is what your life looks like now.”
“I work here.”
She took a thick envelope from her purse.
“Take this. Move somewhere else. Forget the company.”
I did not reach for it.
I did not touch the envelope after Monica drove away.
It lay in the grass where she'd thrown it, damp along one edge.
Opal stood beside me and read the expression on my face.
“We're not taking that inside yet,” she said.
I photographed where it had landed.
Then I called Nadia.
She told me to preserve the messages, the envelope, and a written account of exactly what Monica had said.
She did not tell me to chase my sister or try to make her confess.
We put the envelope in a clean paper bag.
Opal wrote the date on the outside while I repeated the words I remembered.
I wanted to include every cruel thing Monica had ever said to me.
Nadia asked me to stick to that afternoon.
After the call, I washed my hands twice.
The threat had made the outside world feel like another place with locked doors.
Opal kept the porch light on, although it was still daylight.
“You can tell me to stop hovering,” she said.
“I don't want you to stop.”
She sat with me while we ate leftovers.
I told her about the watch.
Dad had given it to me when I signed my first supply contract.
It wasn't expensive, but he had engraved my initials on the back.
Monica had always said I was the favorite because Dad admired my business.
I had denied it, believing denial would make her resentment disappear.
Now the watch was on her wrist and I could barely remember his voice without hearing hers.
That evening I tried to call an old friend.
I hung up before the first ring ended.
I didn't know how to summarize prison, betrayal, and fear in a friendly conversation.
Instead, I wrote her a short email.
I'm back in Columbus.
I'm working.
I would like to see you if you're comfortable with that.*
She replied before bedtime.
Coffee Saturday?*
I sat on the bed staring at two ordinary words.
The money had been meant to frighten me into silence.
But Monica had reminded me of something useful.
I could choose whom I spoke to.
“Why?”
“Because Trevor’s tired of your accusations.”
“I haven’t spoken to Trevor.”
“People have.”
I heard Opal’s screen door open behind me.
Monica stepped closer.
“If you mention my name again, I promise you’ll be going straight back to prison.”
Then she threw the envelope at my feet.
I looked at the money without touching it.
“Pick up your money,” I told her.
“You already took four years of my life. You’re not buying the ones I have left.”
My sister smiled.
“You still think you can win.”
She walked back to her car.
Opal stood beside the door holding her mobile phone.
“I recorded the end,” she said quietly.
I told her not to post the recording or share it with anyone but my lawyer.
We photographed the envelope where it lay.
I called Nadia from the kitchen.
She asked whether Monica had physically threatened me.
I repeated her words exactly.
Nadia told me to preserve the evidence and update the police report, without assuming a crime had been established.
Only after the officer had taken a statement did I allow the envelope to be collected and documented.
The encounter left me shaking.
I spent the evening washing dishes that were already clean.
Opal turned off the tap.
“Go sit down.”
“What if she comes back?”
“Then we call for help again.”
I looked toward the front window.
Monica had taken Dad’s watch.
But this time she had not taken my answer.
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: A Reluctant Witness Explained What She Heard From Trevor During Loretta’s Illness
The Woman Who Asked About My Sentence Offered Something More Useful Than Sympathy
Part 6 of 16
