Chapter 14: The Safe

Greaves Lumber & Supply ran along the river for half a mile, stacks of pine and oak under yard lights.

Dominic parked his truck behind the sawmill, where the road could not see it.

It was five minutes to midnight.

"The office is the trailer by the scale house," he said. "Dad's safe is behind the desk."

"Will it be locked?"

"My mother told the foreman to leave it open, so she wants someone inside tonight."

"Who?"

"Someone she trusts to carry a bag."

We went along the rows of lumber in the dark.

A light was on in the trailer.

A car I knew was parked outside, a white convertible with the top down.

"No," I said.

"Yes," Dominic said.

Preston stood at the open safe with a canvas bag at his feet, a bottle of bourbon in one hand and a stack of folders in the other.

He was wearing his good blue shirt, wrinkled, with the top buttons open.

He looked up and grinned.

"Well, look at this," he said. "Mom said you might come."

"Put the folders down," Dominic said.

"You put them down. They're not yours."

"They're Dad's."

"Dad's dead. They're Mom's." Preston lifted the bourbon in salute. "Hi, babe."

I stood in the doorway with my hand on the frame.

Nobody had told him about the recording.

Nobody had told him about the photos, or the date on the renewal, or the ring.

He didn't know any of it, and he was here anyway, at midnight, burning papers for his mother.

"What's she paying you?" I said.

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