The hour was early, roughly seven in the morning. Household muffled sounds filtered through the door: children prepping for school, a television droning in the background.
Clark pulled the door open wearing his work shirt, half a piece of toast gripped in his hand. The instant visual recognition registered on his face was fascinating; he understood instantly before a single syllable left my lips.
Yet he masked it swiftly.
“Frank!” he greeted, radiating forced cheer. “A bit early, aren’t we? What can I do for you today, buddy?”
I withheld any friendly expression.
“Have you been siphoning fuel from my truck?” I demanded. “Because I have you recorded on camera walking up my driveway at two in the morning holding a hose. Drop the act. How dare you.”
The artificial enthusiasm evaporated. Yet Clark’s reaction exposed his true nature: panic yielded neither to shame nor apology.
Instead, he laughed.
