They opened the truck bed and started unloading buckets.
Denise went completely still.
One of the men walked directly toward her driveway.
The other followed with two rollers.
I looked at Denise.
Her face had gone pale.
"You know them."
"No."
"You do."
"I said I don't."
The men began painting her car.
They worked fast.
Not carefully, but efficiently.
One took the driver's side while the other handled the passenger side. They coated the windows first, then the doors, hood, and trunk.
Denise stared at my phone.
"This is insane."
I almost agreed.
Then something happened that neither of us expected.
A third person stepped out of the truck.
It was a woman.
She stood under a streetlight for several seconds before walking toward the driveway.
Denise made a strange choking sound.
"Oh my God."
I looked at her.
"Who is she?"
Denise did not answer.
On the screen, the woman held up her phone and recorded the two men painting the car.
Then she walked directly toward my house.
My stomach tightened.
"Why is she coming over here?"
Denise backed away from me.
I kept watching.
The woman stopped at the edge of my driveway.
Then she pointed toward my damaged car.
One of the men came over and examined it.
They spoke for a moment.
There was no sound on the footage, but their body language was clear.
The woman looked furious.
Then she pointed toward Denise's house.
I paused the video.
"Denise."
She said nothing.
"Who is she?"
Denise swallowed.
"My sister."
I stared at her.
"Your sister?"
She sank into one of my kitchen chairs.
Her anger was gone.
So was the smugness I had grown used to.
For the first time in almost a year, Denise looked scared.
"Her name is Sabrina," she muttered.
"What does your sister have to do with my car?"
Denise rubbed both hands over her face.
