Chapter 11: The Policy

Caleb's POV

Brett's shop was a cinderblock garage behind a strip mall.

The sign said CARRAWAY HVAC, and a van with a dented door sat out front.

Rachel parked across the lot with the engine running.

Carrie sat in the back seat with her phone on record.

"Ten minutes," I said. "If I'm not out, call the sheriff."

"If you're not out in five," Carrie said, "I'm coming in with the tire iron."

"You don't have a tire iron."

"Rachel has one."

"I have one," Rachel said. "It's under your seat."

I walked across the lot.

The garage door was half up, and inside it smelled of cut sheet metal and old coffee.

Brett stood at his workbench in a work shirt, unshaven, with a manila envelope in both hands.

He had lost weight in four days.

"Close the door," he said.

"No."

"Caleb."

"We're doing this with the door open, and my sister can see us from the car."

His mouth twisted.

"You brought people."

"You told me to come alone. You also told me you were scared of her. I'm scared of both of you."

He laughed once, without any sound in it.

Then he put the envelope on the bench between us and slid it over.

"Open it."

I did.

It held a printout, six pages, stapled.

The top of the first page said: Voyager Travel Protect, Certificate of Coverage.

My name was typed under Insured.

My date of birth.

My signature, a smear of thumbprint on a phone screen, dated the night before the last day of the trip.

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