Listen by Rene Gutteridge

the screen saver and typed quickly.
    “What are you doing?” Darla asked.
    But Tim didn’t answer. He seemed to be scrolling. Then he stopped.
    Beyond the hum of the refrigerator, silence hung as Tim leaned toward the computer, reading. Frank looked at Darla, who continued to glance between Tim, Frank, and the front window.
    Then Tim turned. “Oh no.”
    Darla stood. “What’s the matter?”
    Tim didn’t seem to know what to say. He stared at the floor, shook his head, his hand on his cheek.
    “Tim! What’s the matter?”
    “It’s . . . it’s the conversation . . . the other night, when I was mad.”
    “About the vote?”
    “Yes, yes. About the vote. The whole conversation is on there. Except there are, uh . . . The, um, curse words. Aren’t.”
    Frank had noticed that too. Whoever was recording these conversations seemed to be taking out the cusswords.
    It felt like the air in the room disappeared. Frank said, “Why don’t you both sit down.”
    Tim made his way to the couch, his eyes distant. Darla looked totally stunned. They sat down, this time a small space between them. Both stared at Frank as if he had an answer.
    Finally Tim spoke, his face tightly drawn. “They think we hung their cat just because I was mad at him?”
    Frank decided to take it a different direction. “Sir, do you go to the hardware store? Al’s?”
    “Yes. All the time. Why?”
    “Were you there this week?”
    “Yes.”
    “What did you buy?”
    Darla’s face looked like it hadn’t seen the light of day in a decade. She tried to keep her composure, but her hands were shaking. “Weed killer, wasn’t it?”
    Tim nodded.
    “Did you pay cash for it?”
    “You really don’t think we did this, do you?”
    “Did you pay cash, sir?”
    “Yes, we pay cash for everything.”
    “You pay cash for everything?”
    “Yes.”
    “No credit cards or debit cards? What about checks?”
    “No. Cash. Except for bills.”
    “Why?” Frank asked.
    “It’s the envelope system,” Darla said.
    “The what?”
    “It’s a method for getting out of debt, living within your means,” Tim said. “You pay cash for everything, like clothes, groceries, things like that.”
    Darla hopped up and grabbed her purse, pulling out a small, yellow book. “See? Here.” She handed it to him. Inside were small envelopes filled with cash. Each envelope was labeled differently: Groceries . Dining . Date night . Pharmacy .
    Frank handed it back and scribbled a note about it.
    “It’s Dave Ramsey’s idea,” she said.
    “Who’s Dave Ramsey?” Frank asked.
    Darla pointed behind Frank and he turned around. There, standing in the darkness of the far corner of the room was a life-size cardboard cutout of a man, balding, fiftyish, pointing his finger toward Frank.
    “He’s a financial guy. Writes lots of books,” Tim said. “To help us stay on track, we took him and had him blown up.”
    “Enlarged,” Darla said quickly. “What Tim means is that we had him enlarged. We don’t blow things up, of course. Or people. Or hang things.”
    “Look, Officer, I don’t know what’s going on or how they heard our conversation, but we did not kill the Caldwells’ cat. I was angry when I was speaking to my wife. But that was a private conversation, and the next day I was over it. Ted has not mentioned a thing about it to me. I didn’t even realize he was upset. He canceled coffee early this week, but he said he was busy. I didn’t think twice about it.”
    Frank stood and closed his notepad. “All right. We may need you to come in and answer some more questions later.”
    Darla seemed to be in full-blown panic. “Do we need a lawyer?”
    “No,” Tim snapped. “Of course not. We’ve done nothing wrong.”
    “I can’t answer that question, ma’am. Do what you need to do. But for now, I’d advise staying away from the Caldwells until this thing is sorted out.”
    Tim seemed sad more than anything. He walked to the window and looked out, his