Chapter 5: Ten O'Clock

The shop floor of Tarrant Boatworks smells like cut cedar, diesel and hot epoxy.

At ten to ten on Wednesday, it also smelled like a funeral.

Fourteen people stood around the long workbench in their coveralls with their arms folded.

Nobody was working.

At the far end, by the office door, stood a man in a gray suit with a leather folder.

Next to him stood my mother, in pearls, with a gold pen.

Dixon leaned on the wall behind them, looking at his phone.

I came in through the side door in my uniform trousers and a clean white shirt.

Myra walked beside me.

She had told me on the way over that she didn't plan to say a word.

"I'm furniture," she said.

"With a camera."

"Today with a wrench."

My mother saw me, and her pen stopped over the page.

"Roan," she said. "This is private company business."

"It's my company."

"Half of it."

"Half is enough to be in the room."

The man in the suit looked from her to me.

"Mrs. Tarrant, who is this?"

"A disturbed young man," she said. "He's leaving."

"I'm Roan Tarrant," I said, and he looked at my face.

"I'm the other owner. Dad's will splits the yard between his two sons."

"My brother doesn't get to sell my half, and neither does she."

"I have a power of attorney," my mother said, smooth as paint. "Signed by you before you left."

"For paying my bills. Not for selling my father's life."

"It says what it says."

I turned to the buyer.

"My name is on the deed beside my brother's."

"You can buy his half and hire a lawyer to fight me for the rest. Or you can look at who you're buying it from."

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