They park down the street where they can watch the house. Cut the engine, roll down the windows because of the heat. Sit there waiting.
“It’s that one there? The one with the winding driveway?”
“That’s right, college-boy.”
“Are you sure she’s in there?”
“’Course she’s in there.”
“What if someone sees us parked here?”
“So f****n’ what?”
“So, what if someone sees us and asks what we’re doing?”
“Then we say you’re droppin’ me off ‘cause I’m goin’ to work. I do their f****n’ lawn.”
“Are you going to use the gun or your knife?”
“Knife. Already told you that, college-boy.”
The sunlight through the parted lace curtains is warm on Rosa’s face and she closes her eyes against it. She stays there like that, elbows on the windowsill, knees on the sofa. After a while she slowly opens her eyes, as if coming out of a dream. She looks through the window, down a street lined with lush green trees guarding houses and manicured lawns. She imagines what it would be like to own one of the houses. To call it hers.
There is no sound in the McGreggor house, only a thick afternoon silence. Rosa Bernal Gonzalez is alone; Mr. McGreggor is at work, Mrs. McGreggor is long dead, and the children are at school. The silence and the stillness and the sunlight keeps Rosa at the windowsill.
Some time later she makes a cup of tea and drinks it in the kitchen, leaning against the imported marble countertop. Copper-plated pots and pans hang obediently on hooks above the grills and ovens.