The garage went stone quiet again.
Richard’s eyes locked onto mine. For three long seconds, he didn't breathe. The polished, professional mask he had worn for twenty years slipped just enough for me to see something cold, calculated, and dangerous beneath it.
"Where did you get that receipt, Sam?" Richard asked softly. The friendly brotherly tone was completely gone. In its place was a flat, lethal chill.
"Toby found it," I said, pointing toward the oilcloth roll. "In Earl's tool wrap. In his daughter's attic."
Richard looked at the oilcloth, then let out a slow, controlled breath. He reached out, grabbed the leather edge of the oilcloth wrap, and rolled it back up with smooth, practiced movements. He picked up the heavy bundle of steel tools and held it firmly against his chest.
"This is old shop inventory," Richard said smoothly, his composure snapping back into place like a steel spring. "It belongs to the property owner under the 2005 liquidation agreement. Which means it belongs to me."
"Hey! Put those back!" Toby yelled, stepping forward with his fists clenched. "Those are my grandfather's!"
"They're evidence in an old financial fraud investigation, kid," Richard said coldly, stepping back toward the office door. "And if you come back around this property trespassing again, I'm going to have Sheriff Miller pick you up and take you down to juvenile intake. Do you understand me?"
"Richard, leave the tools!" I barked, taking a step toward my brother.
"Sam! Back off!" Richard snapped, pointing a long, rigid finger at my chest. "You've been obsessing over this dead murderer's memory for twenty years! You let this garage turn into a museum for a man who ruined us! The land sale goes through today. The back bay is being bull-dozed on Friday. If you try to interfere with the township development contract, I will cancel your master shop lease by five o'clock tonight, and you'll be sitting on the sidewalk with your toolboxes before the weekend."
He turned on his heel and walked briskly down the narrow hallway, the heavy office door slamming shut behind him with a resonant, vibrating bang that rattled the glass panes.
I stood there, my heart pounding violently against my ribs, my breathing ragged. I looked down at the leather seat of the motorcycle. The oilcloth was gone, but the faded polaroid photo of Earl and me was still sitting there, right beside the handwritten folded brown paper Toby had laid down earlier.
I reached out with a trembling hand and picked up the folded piece of brown paper. I unfolded it carefully.
It wasn't a note. It was a hand-drawn schematic of the 1982 Harley frame. Earl’s distinctive cursive handwriting covered the margins in dark blue ink. Beside the drawing of the main hollow steel frame tube beneath the gas tank, Earl had drawn a heavy red arrow pointing to an internal compartment, accompanied by three words:
THE REAL LEDGER — INSIDE THE SPINE
I stared at the drawing, my mind racing at light speed. Toby stepped up beside me, pulling a rusty twelve-inch adjustable wrench out from the side pocket of his backpack.
"He took the wrenches, Doc," Toby whispered, looking up at me with tears of frustration rimming his gray eyes. "He took my granddad's tools."
I looked at the boy, then down at the rusted Harley gas tank with EB 2005 carved into the steel. A sudden, terrible realization washed over me. For twenty years, I had believed what my brother told me because it was easier than facing the nightmare truth. I had let Richard convince me that Earl was a monster so I wouldn't have to look too closely at how Richard suddenly acquired the capital to buy up eighty acres of waterfront river land six months after Earl vanished.
I reached down, grabbed a socket set and a socket wrench from my main tool chest, and handed them to Toby.