Chapter 3

I waited until Dean and Bree went inside before I took the truck key down again. I did not put it near the ignition. I held it while I opened the cabinet beneath the workbench.

The old metal toolbox should have been there. My father had kept it under the bench because the bottom drawer stuck in damp weather. I had watched him choose each tool without looking.

The cabinet held two bottles of wax and a folded drop cloth.

I checked behind the air compressor. Then I opened every low drawer, though none was deep enough. Dust marked pale rectangles where things had stood for years, but there was no rust-red box.

Dean came back through the kitchen door carrying two glasses of water. He saw me kneeling beside the bench and placed them down.

"What are you hunting for?"

"Dad's toolbox."

He glanced toward the tall cabinets. "I cleared those old tools out."

My fingers stayed around the cabinet handle. The narrow edge pressed a line into my palm.

"All of them?"

"They were worn out." He nudged one glass toward me. "I replaced everything."

He sounded pleased. Dean understood polished steel, matched sets, and drawers that shut cleanly. A new tool was kindness to him.

I stood and looked along the pegboard. The hooks formed neat black rows around tools with bright red grips. My father's open-end wrenches had hung there by size, each one darkened where his thumb rested. They were gone too.

"When did you clear them out?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. "A while ago. You never used them."

The key cut into the base of my fingers. I loosened my hand and laid it on the bench.

Bree appeared in the doorway with a driving booklet tucked beneath her arm. She looked from Dean to the open cabinet.

"Are we still practicing?"

Dean reached for the keys clipped to his belt. "We can take the shop car."

I looked at the truck. "You haven't been teaching her in this?"

"It hasn't run in six years."

For a moment, the garage seemed to lose its depth. The truck sat ten feet away, but the hood looked flat against the wall. I placed both palms on the workbench until the grain stopped shifting beneath them.

Six years. Dean had given Bree the truck before asking me, yet he had never made it move for her. He had used the shop car, with its soft brakes and wide mirrors, while this one gathered dust behind my closed garage door.

Bree lowered the booklet. "I thought we'd use it after you fixed the seat."

"We will," Dean said. "Once I get it sorted."

He had an answer ready in his easy shrug. The truck was old. The shop stayed busy. Bree needed something dependable. His keys made a small, cheerful sound when he turned toward the door.

I picked up the truck key before he could reach it. "Take the shop car."

Dean paused. "You coming?"

"No."

Bree watched my closed hand, then followed him outside. The side door settled behind them, and the shop car started beyond the wall. Its engine faded toward town.

I crossed to Dean's new rolling toolbox and pulled the top drawer open. Ratchets lay in molded black trays. The next drawer held matched sockets, clean enough to reflect the ceiling lights. I opened another, then another, searching for one gap shaped like something old.

Every recess in the new toolbox was full. There was not one empty place.