Chapter 2 - The Whispers in the Hallway
By two o'clock that afternoon, the incident had spread through the packaging plant like wildfire. Employees huddled around the hydraulic press stations, leaning over cardboard pallets to whisper urgent theories. The maintenance crew ceased their banter, casting suspicious glances toward the quality control glass booth where Roz was busy titrating oil samples.
"Did you see Trudy's face?" Linda Mercer muttered to another line worker by the vending machines. "He practically spat in her face. After everything Trudy did for Boyd when his wife died, he goes and dines with the girl who broke Clay's heart and ran him off into that ditch."
"She didn't run him off," an older mechanic named Carl grunted, wiping grease onto a rag. "Nobody knows what happened that night except Roz and God."
"Well, Trudy knows enough," Linda snapped, crossing her arms defensively. "Clay was sober for eight months before Roz left him. Two days after she walked out of that house, he was wrapped around an oak tree off Highway 84. You tell me who pulled that trigger."
Inside the lab, Roz could feel the malice pressing against the plexiglass walls. Her hands were steady only because she forced them to be. She carefully measured twenty milliliters of peanut oil into a beaker, noting the clarity index in her logbook. She knew what they said about her. She had heard the vicious gossip in the local grocery stores, at the gas pumps, and in the church pews she had eventually stopped visiting.
She drove him to drink.
She took his money and abandoned him.
She killed Trudy’s boy.
A shadow darkened the lab door. Roz looked up, expecting another passive-aggressive glance from a supervisor. Instead, Fay Trimble walked in, her silver hair pulled into a tight bun, clutching a clipboard against her chest. Fay had worked at the Gaines plant since Boyd was running around in knee-high socks.
"You got a minute, Roz?" Fay asked, her gravelly voice devoid of the usual coldness the other women displayed.
"Always, Ms. Trimble," Roz said softly, setting down her glass pipette. "Is there an issue with the third batch?"
Fay closed the door firmly behind her, shutting out the roar of the roasting drums. "The batch is fine. The company, on the other hand, is about to split down the middle. Trudy just marched into the executive suite with thirty years of tenure and a face like thunder."
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Roz leaned against the stainless-steel counter, her heart sinking. "I told him not to sit with me. I told him he'd regret it."
"Boyd Gaines doesn't regret things he chooses to do, honey," Fay said, studying Roz with sharp, observant eyes. "He’s a stubborn man. Just like his daddy. But Trudy isn't just angry, Roz. She's scared. And when an old matriarch gets scared, she bites. If you've got something to say to Boyd, you better say it before Trudy makes him choose between his workforce and his conscience."
