I gave my rideshare driver coffee every night. One night he drove past my house and said, “…”

“What?” I gasped.

“There’s more,” Raymond pulled out his phone, his hands shaking slightly.

“I started paying attention after that. Professional habit from my old security job at the mill. I started keeping track.”

“That man, Thomas Brennan, I’ve picked him up seven times in the last month. Always late at night, always drunk, always on his phone having these intense conversations.” He swiped through his phone, showing me a list of times and dates logged in a notes app.

“Last night I picked him up again. He was talking about you again, Carol.” He said:

“She works late Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays. House is empty. I’ve been watching.” Ice flooded my veins.

“He’s been watching my house?” I asked.

“I think so. And I think there’s more going on than just watching.” Raymond’s face was grim.

“Two nights ago, I drove past your street on my way home. I saw his truck parked two houses down from yours at 2:00 in the morning. Just sitting there. Lights off, engine running.”

“Why would he…?” I couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I don’t know, but Carol, I need you to not go home tonight. Please.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” I asked.

“A hotel, a friend’s house, your daughter’s place if you can. Anywhere but Cedar Street.” He reached back and handed me his phone.

“These are all my notes. Times, dates, things he said. I think you need to go to the police.” My hands shook as I took the phone.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I asked.

“Because I wasn’t sure at first. I thought maybe I was being paranoid, reading too much into drunk rambling.”

“But tonight, Carol, tonight I drove past your street again before picking you up. His truck was parked in front of your house. Your house.”

“And I saw him get out and try your front door.” The coffee I’d drunk earlier threatened to come back up.

“He tried my door?” I whispered.

“It was locked, thank God. But he stood there for almost a minute, jiggling the handle, looking in the windows. Then he went back to his truck and just sat there watching your house.”

“That’s when I knew I had to tell you.”

“But why? What have I done to him? I barely know the man.”

“I don’t know,” Raymond said.

“But I think we need to find out, and I think we need to do it safely, which means you can’t go home.”

I sat there in his car in that empty parking lot, my whole world spinning. A man I’d waved to pleasantly for the past 2 years had apparently been plotting something sinister.

The only reason I knew was because of a rideshare driver I’d shown basic human kindness to.

“The Medford Inn,” I finally said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Take me there. I’ll stay tonight and tomorrow I’ll go to the police.”

“No,” Raymond said firmly.

“We go to the police now. Tonight.”

“It’s almost midnight.” I said.

“Carol, this man tried your door tonight while you were at work. What if he comes back? What if he has a key somehow?” Raymond’s voice rose with urgency.

“We need to report this now.” He was right. I knew he was right.

20 minutes later, we were sitting in the Medford Police Department. A young officer was taking our statement while an older detective listened with increasing interest.

I told them about my routine, about barely knowing Thomas Brennan. Raymond pulled up his detailed logs, every ride, every fragment of conversation he’d documented.

“And you’re certain he said ‘handle it’?” the detective asked, his gray eyebrows furrowed.

“Positive,” Raymond replied.

“I started recording the rides after the second time. Just audio, for my own protection. I can play them for you.” The detective’s eyes sharpened.

“You have recordings?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I keep them for safety in case there’s ever an incident in my car. Passengers sign a consent when they request the ride; it’s in the app’s terms of service.”

I hadn’t known that. The detective pulled out a laptop and Raymond transferred the audio files.

We sat there in that sterile police interview room listening to Thomas Brennan’s slurred voice talking about me, about my house, about handling the situation. The detective’s face grew grimmer with each recording.

“Mrs. Carol,” he said when the last file finished.

“Do you have any idea what Mr. Brennan might think you’ve seen or know about?”

“Nothing,” I insisted.

“I work at the hospital three nights a week. I come home and sleep. That’s my entire life. I don’t even know what the man does for a living.”

The detective exchanged a glance with the younger officer.

“He works at Riverside Medical Center,” he said slowly.

“In maintenance, night shift.” My blood ran cold.

“What? You’ve never seen him there?” the detective asked.

“The hospital employs 400 people. I work in billing in the basement. I barely see anyone except my immediate co-workers.”

Even as I said it, something tickled at the back of my memory. A janitor I’d passed in the hallway sometimes, always around 11:15 when I was heading out.

A man with a rolling cart, always wearing a baseball cap pulled low. I’d never looked at his face, never paid attention.

“The basement,” I said slowly.

“Where the billing department is. He cleans there, doesn’t he?” The detective nodded.

“According to his work schedule, he’s assigned to the basement level administrative offices and records storage.”

“Records storage,” I repeated. And then it clicked.

“Oh my God. The missing files.” Everyone in the room turned to look at me.

“3 weeks ago,” I said, my words tumbling out faster now.

“My supervisor noticed discrepancies. Patient files that were billed, but the physical records were missing. Just random files, nothing that seemed connected.”

“We thought it was a filing error, that someone had misplaced them. We’ve been doing an audit, going through everything manually.”

The detective leaned forward.

“What kind of files?” he asked.

“Elderly patients, Medicaid patients. People who probably wouldn’t notice or complain about billing errors.” I felt sick.

“We haven’t found them yet. The audit is still ongoing.”

“But if someone was systematically stealing files and submitting false insurance claims, that would be healthcare fraud,” the detective finished.

“Federal offense. Serious prison time.”

“And if he knew you were part of the audit team,” the younger officer added.

“And he thought you were getting close to figuring out it was him…” The room went silent.