Chapter 21: Bolt Cutters

I didn't stop for shoes.

I ran out of the office in my socks and a T-shirt, with the phone in my hand.

Two of my movers were on the night shift in bay two, loading a truck for a six o'clock job.

"Second floor," I said. "Now."

They dropped what they were holding and came.

We took the stairs. The freight elevator was too loud.

The second-floor hall was dark except for the exit signs and the green eye of the camera.

Halfway down, Brantley knelt in front of Unit 114 with the long handles of the bolt cutters braced against his chest.

The red KITT lock was still on the latch. The shackle had a bright bite in it, half an inch deep.

Daddy bought those locks in 1994. He bought good ones.

"Brantley."

He jerked around.

He wore a black jacket and jeans, with river mud on his shoes and a cut across his palm from the fence.

"Haddie." He stood up slowly, holding the cutters. "Haddie, listen to me."

"How did you get in?"

"The fence by the river."

"The same hole your friends came through to cut my tires."

He didn't deny it.

My two movers stopped at my shoulders.

One still had a box cutter in his hand from the shrink wrap. He didn't raise it.

"Put those down," I said.

Brantley looked at the cutters like he'd forgotten he was holding them. He leaned them against the door.

Then his face crumpled.

I had seen him angry. I had seen him charming. I had never seen him like this.

"Please," he said. "Just let me take one box. One. You can have the paintings. Sell them, keep the money."

"I'll sign the divorce tomorrow. I'll drop the roof claim. I'll drop everything."

"What's in the box?"

"Old papers. They'd hurt people who never did anything to you."

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