Everything about that woman screamed victim. Dorothy came over with the coffee pot. " Your neighbor?" she asked, topping off his mug. " Didn't know she was until just now.
Evelyn Brennan, nice lady. Used to come in here with her husband every Sunday. Harold, good man. Died of cancer back in the spring." Dorothy shook her head. "
Terrible thing, just terrible. And now her all alone in that house, in that chair." " The chair, that from the cancer?" " No, car accident 2 years back. They got T-boned at the intersection of Route 60 and Maple.
Harold walked away with bruises. Evelyn." She trailed off, shrugged. " Spinal damage." " Doctor said she'd never walk again.
Medical bills." " Oh, I imagine so. That kind of injury, that kind of care insurance only covers so much, you know." Garrett knew. Kate's hospital bills from the stroke had been $90,000.
Insurance covered 60. The rest had come out of savings. If Kate had lived longer, if she'd needed more care, Garrett would have burned through everything they had. As it was, she died fast enough that he still had money left. Terrible thing to be grateful for, but there it was.
He paid for his coffee, left a good tip. Dorothy had been kind to him in the months after Kate died, never asked too many questions, never pushed too hard on days when he couldn't quite make conversation work. Outside the morning had turned hot. 9:00 a.m. in Arizona meant the sun had decided it was time to remind everyone who was in charge. Sarge trotted to the Harley, waited for Garrett to mount up, then jumped into the sidecar attached to the bike's right side.
The sidecar was a recent addition, something Garrett had built himself 6 months after Kate died, when the silence of riding alone got too loud. Sarge rode in it like a king in a chariot, head up, ears back, eyes scanning the road ahead. Garrett kicked the engine to life, let it rumble, let it drown out thoughts for a minute, then he rode home, past the post office, past the library, past the elementary school where Evelyn Brennan had probably taught before she retired, past the gas station and the mechanic shop that used to be his before he sold it to young Marcus Webb 2 years back, and kept just the small garage attached to his house, past the blue house with the roses. There was a car in the driveway, black sedan, same one from the diner parking lot. Garrett slowed, not obvious, just a casual decrease in speed, enough to get a look.
The car was empty, but the front door of the house was open. Not wide open, just cracked, 6 inches of darkness visible in the gap. Sarge was staring at the house, that same rigid attention, that same frequency he couldn't tune out. Garrett made himself keep riding. Three more houses, his place.
896 Cottonwood Lane, single-story ranch, detached garage out back, lawn that was more dirt than grass because Garrett had never cared much about landscaping, and cared even less after Kate died. He parked the Harley, killed the engine, sat there in the sudden silence. " We don't know her," he said out loud, to himself, to Sarge, to the ghost of Kate that sometimes felt close enough to touch. We don't know what's going on, not our business." Sarge jumped out of the sidecar, didn't head for the house, headed for the street, stopped, looked back at Garrett. "
Not our business," Garrett said again. The dog waited. Garrett thought about Kate, about the night she died. He'd been in the garage working on an old Triumph somebody had brought in, completely absorbed in the problem of a carburetor that wouldn't hold a tune. Kate had been in the house.
She'd called his name once, soft. He'd heard it, but hadn't responded immediately, just held up a finger in that universal gesture of give me 1 second. That second stretched to 5 minutes. When he went inside, she was on the kitchen floor. Stroke, massive.
The doctor said later, she'd probably been dead before she hit the ground, said there was nothing Garrett could have done even if he'd been standing right next to her. But he hadn't been standing next to her. He'd been in the garage, ignoring her voice, choosing an engine over his wife. 1 second, that's all she'd asked for, and he'd said, "Not yet." He thought about Evelyn Brennan, about the bruises, about the terror, about the man in the black sedan now sitting in her driveway, about the way she'd said, "Please don't ask questions."
Some people ask questions because they wanted to help. Some asked because they were nosy. Some asked because they couldn't stand the idea of walking away. Garrett had spent 20 months walking away, from neighbors who tried to check on him, from friends who wanted him to get back out there, from a world that kept insisting he should move on when he couldn't figure out how to move at all. He'd gotten good at walking away, expert level, but Sarge was still standing there, still waiting, still locked on that invisible signal that said someone needed protecting, and Kate's voice memory, or ghost, or imagination, didn't matter which, whispered in the back of his mind, "Don't let your heart get as hard as the bolts you turn, Garrett.
Don't let it." He'd failed that promise for 20 months. Every day choosing the garage over people, choosing silence over connection, choosing the safe known territory of engines and metal over the messy complicated business of caring. Maybe it was time to stop failing it. Garrett stood up, started walking toward the blue house three doors down.
Sarge fell in beside him, no longer waiting, moving with purpose now, partner stance, the way they used to move together when they'd go on long walks before Kate died and everything fell apart. The black sedan was still in the driveway, engine off, windows up. The front door was still cracked open. Garrett climbed the porch steps. Old wood, needed replacing.
He could do that. Knew how. Just needed lumber and time and focus. He knocked. Three solid raps, official, deliberate.
No answer. He knocked again. " Mrs. Brennan, it's Garrett Holloway from down the street. Just checking if everything's all right." Still no answer, but he heard something.
A voice. Male, low. The tone people use when they want to be threatening without yelling. Garrett put his hand on the door. Pushed gently.
It swung open. Inside the house was neat. Almost obsessively so. Hardwood floors polished to a shine. Furniture arranged with military precision.
Photos on the walls. Evelyn and a man Garrett assumed was Harold Younger smiling arms around each other in front of the Grand Canyon. Another photo Harold in desert fatigues Medical Corps insignia visible. The voice was coming from the living room, around the corner, out of sight. " Mrs. Brennan, I'm coming in."
Garrett called out. Loud, clear, giving her warning. Giving whoever was with her warning, too. Sarge moved ahead. Not aggressive.
Scouting. The way he used to scout terrain when Garrett would take him hiking in the mountains. Garrett followed, turned the corner into the living room. Two men, both in their 40s. Both wearing polo shirts and khakis like they'd coordinated.
Both standing over Evelyn who sat in her wheelchair with her hands gripped white-knuckled on the armrests. The taller one, 6'2", buzz cut, arms that said he spent time in a gym, turned toward Garrett. " This is private property, old man. You need to leave." Garrett didn't move. "
Mrs. Brennan, you want me to leave?" She was shaking. Full-body tremors. Eyes locked on the floor. " I She's fine," the shorter one said.
50, maybe. Receding hairline. Scar over his left eyebrow. " We're just having a conversation about some financial matters. Nothing that concerns you." "
Seemed like she was fine when she asked if anyone was sitting at my table this morning," Garrett said quietly. " Seems less fine now." The tall one took a step forward. Aggressive posture. Chest out, chin up.