I turned toward Monica’s house.
Her kitchen light was already on.
I didn’t go knocking on her door.
Not yet.
Instead, I photographed everything.
The branches.
The footprints.
The ladder.
The empty trees.
Monica had returned after I caught her.
After I warned her.
After she had seen my grieving son standing there clutching his father’s cap.
Nobody would take that kind of risk simply for a few hundred dollars’ worth of fruit.
Whatever Monica was doing, it wasn’t really about apples.
By eight that morning, I was sitting at my kitchen table with my laptop.
At first, I searched for places where Monica might be planning to sell that much produce.
Within twenty minutes, I found her name connected to a weekend community market.
But my mind kept returning to what she’d said.
The red light.
So I searched something else.
“Monica Daniel.”
Then I added their last names and the town where Daniel had grown up.
Most results were useless.
Then I found an old photograph.
It had been taken twenty-seven years ago.
I stared at the screen for a long time.
Daniel hadn’t told me everything.
Not even close.
By noon, I had made several calls, printed photographs, and collected a few things from our garden shed.
Later that afternoon, I stood on Monica’s front lawn arranging the final part of my plan.
Her door opened.
The scream that came out of her was so loud that neighbors started stepping outside.
“What the hell are you doing?”
In the center of her lawn stood a large handmade sign.
MONICA’S HARVEST.
Below it, in huge letters, I had written:
THIS WOMAN SPENT YEARS TRYING TO TAKE MY HUSBAND FROM ME.
NOW, TWELVE DAYS AFTER HIS DEATH, SHE’S TAKING WHAT HE LEFT BEHIND.
“What is this?” Monica shouted.
“Advertising,” I answered. “You said you wanted to sell the fruit.”
She rushed toward the sign.
“Take this down!”
