Chapter 5: Tom Watkinson's Girl

Mace didn't say a word on the ride back to the garage.

I followed him into the middle bay, where a half-built chopper sat on a stand under a work light.

He picked up a rag and began wiping his hands, though they were already clean.

"Mace," I said. "My mother wrote your name."

"I heard."

"What's the rest?"

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"I promised her." He put the rag down. "Three years ago, in the hospital. She had me swear."

"Swear what?"

"That I'd keep an eye on you, and that I'd tell you nothing until you left Gage on your own."

I stared at him.

"She knew I'd leave him?"

"She hoped." His voice was rough. "She said if you stayed with him, it was safer if you never knew."

"Safer from what?"

He looked at the floor.

I heard footsteps on the gravel outside, and Pearl came in through the side door carrying a foil-covered pan in both hands.

"Pot roast," she said. "Nobody's eaten, and I can see it on both your faces."

She stopped when she saw us.

She set the pan on the workbench slowly.

"You told her?" she said to Mace.

"I told her I promised not to."

Pearl turned to me with her reading glasses in her hand.

"Mallory, you left him on your own two feet, in front of forty people. That was the condition. Your mother set it, not Mace."

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