Chương 8
Mark died Monday night.
Lucas was already unlocking his phone.
“I texted him about it.”
He searched.
His face changed.
“What?”
I asked.
He held out the screen.
The message from Lucas was dated Saturday morning.
Why does Grandma get your car when mine won’t start?
Mark had replied, Because she needs it for errands, and because life is unfair.
Lucas had sent a thumbs-down emoji.
Mark answered with a photograph of himself making an exaggerated sad face.
I stared at that stupid photograph until tears blurred it.
Lucas wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“I forgot.”
I touched the screen where Mark’s face remained frozen in some ordinary Saturday.
Then another detail surfaced.
“The brake warning.”
Lucas looked up.
“What?”
“If the service technician reported it two days before the crash, that was Saturday.”
We both understood at the same time.
Beth stopped folding the wrapper.
Lucas whispered, “Grandma had the car that day.”
“Then we tell Reyes.”
Lucas was already dialing before I finished.
She answered on the third ring.
He put the phone on speaker and spoke too quickly.
“My grandmother had Dad’s car two days before he died, the same day the brake warning was reported.”
Reyes went quiet.
“Slow down.”
Lucas repeated it.
This time he gave her the dates.
He sent the old text exchange while we were still on the call.
I watched the little blue progress bar cross the screen.
It felt absurd that something Mark had written as a joke fourteen months earlier could suddenly become evidence.
Reyes asked whether either of us remembered where Evelyn had gone that Saturday.
Lucas shook his head even though she could not see him.
“No.”
I closed my eyes and tried to reconstruct the weekend.
Laundry.
A grocery run.
Lily drawing on the driveway with chalk.
Mark complaining that somebody had moved his good screwdriver.
Nothing about Evelyn.
“Wait,” I said.
“What?”
Reyes asked.
“She brought the car back Sunday morning.”
“You’re sure?”
“I think.”
“Why?”
“Because she complained about the smell.”
“The smell of what?”
“I don’t know.”
I pressed my fingers to my temple.
“Something chemical.”
Lucas stared at me.
“What chemical?”
“I don’t know.”
Reyes said, “Don’t force a memory.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re trying very hard to make one useful.”
I hated how accurately she heard me.
“She said Mark’s car smelled like a garage.”
“Anything more specific?”
“No.”
“Did Mark react?”
“He said cars usually smell like garages when you take them to garages.”
Lucas frowned.
“So she did take it somewhere.”
“Maybe.”
“Why would she?”
“I don’t know.”
Beth leaned across the table.
“Didn’t Mark use Delaney Auto?”
I looked at her.
“How do you know that?”
“You complained about their waiting room coffee.”
“That does sound like me.”
Lucas was already searching the business name.
Reyes interrupted.
“Don’t call them.”
“Why?”
“Because if there are records, I’d rather they not get altered, misunderstood, or suddenly misplaced after a family member starts asking questions.”
Lucas stopped typing.
“Fine.”
Reyes asked for the exact name and location.
Then she told us again not to contact Evelyn.
“You really think she could’ve done something to Dad’s brakes?”
Lucas asked.
“I think we have information worth checking.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
Lucas looked at the floor.
Reyes continued more gently.
“And I’m not going to give you certainty I don’t have.”
After the call, nobody moved.
The kitchen clock ticked loudly enough to become irritating.
Beth finally stood and started gathering wrappers.
“You don’t have to clean,” I said.
“I need something to do with my hands.”
She tied the takeout bag shut.
Lucas leaned against the counter.
“I should’ve remembered the car sooner.”
“No.”
“I knew she had it.”
“You knew a normal thing happened on a normal Saturday.”
“It might not have been normal.”
“We didn’t know that.”
He rubbed his eyes.
“If Dad’s accident wasn’t an accident—”
“Don’t.”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
“Because we don’t know.”
“But if it wasn’t—”
“Lucas.”
My voice cracked.
“I can’t bury both of them again tonight.”
His face softened.
“Okay.”
He went upstairs without finishing his food.
Beth carried the trash to the garage.
I stayed alone at the table.
For several minutes I stared at Mark’s empty chair.
Then I got up and opened the junk drawer.
I did not know what I was looking for.
Old batteries.
Scissors.
Coupons.
A wrench that belonged somewhere else.
At the bottom was a faded receipt from Delaney Auto.
My heart jumped so violently that I almost laughed at myself.
It was nine months old.
Oil change.
Tire rotation.
Nothing useful.
I sat on the floor anyway, holding it.
Beth returned and found me there.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“I’m tired of asking and getting lied to.”
I smiled despite myself.
A terrible little smile.
Then I started crying.
Not loudly.
No collapse.
Just tears dropping onto the receipt while Beth sat beside me on the kitchen floor.
After a while she said, “You know Mark was terrible at paperwork.”
“He was terrible at everything paper.”
“He once mailed me a birthday card without a stamp.”
“He blamed the post office.”
“He was very committed to that theory.”
I wiped my face.
Then the memory shifted.
Mark at the kitchen counter with a stack of envelopes three days before he died.
One large white envelope had been marked Holloway Financial Services.
I sat upright.
Beth noticed immediately.
“What?”
“I saw Grant’s name.”
“When?”
“Before Mark died.”
“You’re sure?”
“This one I’m sure about.”
I got to my feet.
The office was upstairs at the end of the hall.
Mark had used it mostly for bills and pretending to do taxes.
After his death, I had closed the door and rarely gone inside.
Dust had settled along the monitor.
A mug with three dried pens still sat beside the keyboard.
Beth stood behind me while I opened drawers.
“Don’t move too much.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
May you like
“No.”
The filing cabinet stuck halfway.
