Chapter 6: The Lot

I sat on the office floor with the thirteen cards in my lap and opened every one.

A card with a cartoon cake, signed "Happy 9th. M.T."

A card with a dog in a party hat, signed the same.

There was a twenty-dollar bill in the first one, then a fifty, then a gift card to a kitchen store that had closed years ago.

On my sixteenth there was a note in his square hand.

"Your dad's first knife was a cheap one. Here's a better one. It's waiting for you at the shop on Penn Avenue."

I'd never got the knife.

I'd bought my own, with my four hundred dollars.

When I came out of the office, Magnus was still standing in the kitchen.

He looked at the card in my hand and didn't say anything.

"You wrote every year," I said.

"Every year."

"And he sent every one back."

"Every one." His voice was flat. "I thought you'd done it."

I folded the note on Fisk Auto letterhead and put it in my back pocket.

"Gretchen," I said. "How much gas is in your car?"

Fisk Auto took up a whole corner of Route 22 out in Monroeville.

Red and white balloons were tied to every side mirror.

The new glass showroom glittered in the afternoon sun, and a banner on the roof said FAMILY OWNED. FAMILY VALUES.

It was Saturday, and the lot was full.

Couples kicked tires.

A dad held a toddler up to look inside a minivan.

I'd changed into jeans and my grill apron's T-shirt, and I'd braided my hair so it couldn't get in my way.

Gretchen parked across two spaces.

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