Chapter 5: The Drawer

The night guard at the Toledo depot knew me by my father's face.

"Ms. Dray," he said, and buzzed me through without a question.

The lobby was dark except for the exit signs.

The plaque hung beside the elevator, between a framed safety award and a photo of the first Dray truck.

It was brass, the size of a dinner plate, and I had walked past it a hundred times.

KEANE HAULAGE, EST. 1974. ROUTES JOINED TO DRAY COLD CHAIN, 2012. "THEY DROVE THESE ROADS FIRST."

I put my fingers on the name.

I had always read it as a thank-you.

Now I read it as a grave marker.

I drove to my father's house with the heater on high.

I had not slept there since the funeral.

It was a brick colonial on a street of old maples, with a porch light on a timer.

Nolan and I had lived in a glass condo downtown, because he said the old house was too sad.

I understood now that he had not wanted me near it.

The key stuck, then turned.

Inside, the house smelled like dust and the cedar soap he used.

I did not turn on the lamps.

I went straight to his study and sat in the leather chair.

My father's desk was just a desk.

It had a green blotter and a brass lamp, and a coffee ring that had been there since I was nine.

I opened the bottom drawer, because that was where he had hidden birthday presents.

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