Chương 8
“Where is my multimeter?”
Logan pointed toward the Civic.
“Somewhere under there.”
I crouched and found it near the passenger-side control arm.
The screen was cracked.
I picked it up.
The casing had a fresh scrape across the back.
“Did the car fall?”
“No.”
I looked at the jack stands.
They were positioned incorrectly.
One was under the pinch weld.
The other was partly under thin floor metal several inches away from the reinforced point.
I moved closer.
The metal had begun to deform.
“Where did you put the jack?”
“Under the front.”
“Where?”
He gestured vaguely.
I looked beneath the car.
A plastic undertray sagged where the floor jack had apparently crushed it.
“You jacked it on the splash shield?”
“I used the metal thing behind it.”
“You don’t even know what you lifted the car by.”
“It stayed up.”
“Barely.”
He crossed his arms.
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Act like nobody else can learn anything.”
I stood slowly.
“Learning means starting with basics.”
“I watched a mechanic do this online.”
“A video doesn’t know what mistakes you made before you pressed play.”
He scoffed.
“There.”
“What?”
“That tone.”
I almost shouted at him.
Instead I looked at the Civic.
The driver’s front brake caliper was hanging by its rubber hose.
The hose was twisted.
Fluid had dripped onto the concrete.
The reservoir under the hood looked nearly empty.
“You damaged the brake hose.”
“I didn’t.”
“You hung the caliper from it.”
“That’s how it was.”
“No.”
“How would you know?”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
Then some awareness crept into his expression.
Not enough to make him apologize.
Enough to make him look away.
I took another picture.
Mom opened the door from the house.
“Evan?”
She sounded almost happy to see me.
That lasted until she noticed my face.
“What happened?”
I pointed at the chest.
“Ask him.”
She looked at Logan.
“He needed help with the car.”
“He stole my tools from work.”
Her eyebrows pulled together.
“Your father said those were yours.”
“They are.”
“Then how is it stealing?”
I laughed once.
“Mom.”
“I’m asking.”
“Because owning something means other people need permission to take it.”
“I know what owning means.”
“Apparently nobody here does.”
Her mouth tightened.
“You don’t need to come in here insulting us.”
“I came because my employer wants my equipment returned.”
That changed her expression.
“Your employer?”
“Yes.”
“I thought those were personal tools.”
“They are.”
“Then why is your employer involved?”
“Because Logan lied to someone at the shop to remove them.”
“I didn’t lie,” Logan said.
I turned toward him.
“What exactly did you tell Luis?”
He shrugged.
“That you sent me.”
Mom looked at him.
“You said Evan knew.”
Logan shifted.
“I thought he would.”
There it was.
The story changing in real time.
Dad said Evan would not care.
Then Logan thought I would know.
Another ten minutes and somehow Marcus would have invited him.
Mom rubbed her temple.
“Okay.”
She looked at me.
“Can we just put everything back and calm down?”
“No.”
“Evan.”
“The broken tools need replacing.”
Logan muttered, “Here we go.”
I turned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, say it.”
He looked at Mom first.
Then at me.
“You make everything about money.”
For one second, I saw Dad so clearly in him that it almost hurt.
Not his face.
His reflex.
The belief that costs stopped mattering when someone else paid them.
I held up the cracked multimeter.
“This was four hundred dollars.”
His eyes widened.
“For that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s stupid.”
“So was running over it.”
“I didn’t run over it.”
“Then how did the screen break?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
Mom stepped between us slightly.
“We’ll figure out what was damaged.”
“Who is we?”
She gave me a warning look.
“Evan.”
“Who is paying for it?”
“We don’t even know what happened yet.”
“I do.”
I pointed at the chest.
“That drawer is damaged.”
Then the meter.
“This is damaged.”
Then the bleeder kit.
“This is damaged.”
Then the Civic.
“And his brake hose is probably damaged too.”
Logan threw up his hands.
“So what do you want, a thousand dollars?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You know I don’t have it.”
“Then you have a problem.”
Mom stared at me.
“That’s your brother.”
“Yes.”
“He made a bad decision.”
“He made several.”
“People make mistakes.”
I looked at her.
“A mistake is grabbing the wrong wrench.”
My voice stayed level.
“Driving to my workplace, telling someone I authorized you to take six thousand dollars of equipment, loading it into Dad’s truck, bringing it here, breaking pieces of it, and expecting me to fix your car is a sequence of decisions.”
Nobody spoke.
A lawn mower started somewhere down the street.
The sound was absurdly ordinary.
Mom finally said, “Your father will be home soon.”
“I’m not waiting.”
“You should talk to him.”
“I already know what he thinks.”
“You don’t.”
Logan snorted softly.
I looked at him.
“What?”
He froze.
“Nothing.”
“You keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Reacting like you know something.”
Mom turned toward him.
“Logan.”
His face closed.
That was when I noticed a cardboard box behind the workbench.
Inside were several things from my chest.
Not damaged.
Separated.
A pneumatic impact.
Two specialty socket sets.
My old scan adapter.
And a nearly new cordless ratchet.
I walked over.
Logan moved before he could stop himself.
Just one step.
But it was enough.
I looked at him.
“Why are these in a box?”
He said nothing.
Mom’s face lost color.
“Logan?”
I picked up the cordless ratchet.
A strip of masking tape was stuck to the handle.
There was writing on it in black marker.
$125.
I looked at the socket set.
Another strip of tape.
$80.
The impact had $150 written across the top.
My anger disappeared so fast it frightened me.
“What is this?”
Logan opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
I looked at Mom.
May you like
She stared at the box.
Then I looked back at him.
