Chapter 8: The Pit

There were two men on the front step, and they didn't ring the bell.

I heard the lock turn with a tool, and the door open, and boots on the kitchen floor.

Jerome had my sleeve. "Kitchen's closer to the garage door than we are. Don't move."

"The key."

"Where?"

I looked around the bench.

My father kept a coffee can of loose bolts on the shelf above the vise, four hundred of them in every size, and nobody had ever sorted it.

I dropped the key in and shook the can once, and set it back.

"Now what?" Jerome whispered.

"The pit."

My father's garage had an old inspection pit in the floor, a long concrete trench with a plywood cover, where he used to lie under cars.

I dragged the cover aside with my good hand, dropped down into it, and Jerome dropped in after me.

He pulled the plywood back over our heads, and it went completely dark.

The pit was about three feet wide and not deep enough to stand in.

We lay on our sides, face to face, on the cold concrete, with my father's oil stains smelling of old rags under my cheek.

The garage door opened above us.

Two pairs of boots came in.

A flashlight beam slid through the gap at the edge of the plywood and moved along the wall.

"Toolbox," one man said. "Panel's open."

"Somebody got here first."

"They're still here. Look at the sink. The water's pink."

I held my breath.