“Do you always cut through my garden?” I said pulling a cigarette from behind my ear. I didn’t light the cigarette I just pulled it out from behind my ear then returned it back to my ear, then pulled it out again.
“Sometimes,” he shrugged.
“Did you step on my Bush Mallow and kill her?”
“No,” he said retreating. “Besides, if I would have stepped on it, it would be flattened, and it’s not.” He handed me two bills and the PennySaver flyer and disappeared across the street.
“Because it is, Harold,” I said twirling the unlit cigarette in my hand. “The question now is: who killed it?” I stepped toward him trying to unsettle him and get to the truth.
“Not me if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Then how did you know it was dead?”
“… It’s brown.” Clearly my technique for unsettling him was not working.
“Did you see any suspicious activity around the plant before its death?” I said circling Harold.
“The only person I saw near the plant was you.”
“Yes, when the Santa Anas came.”