Chapter 21: The Watch Shop

The watch shop in Marietta had a brass bell on the door that rang a flat note.

It was the second week of March, and snow lay in the gutters outside.

Amos sat at the bench in the window with his magnifier lowered, working on a small pocket watch.

He did not look up.

"I heard the bell," he said. "You can come all the way in."

I came all the way in.

The shop smelled of oil and cold metal.

Clocks lined the back wall, all set to different times, and a few of them were ticking.

I put the paper bag on the corner of the bench.

It was the same brown bag that Rory had put on my desk, taped shut again.

"I wasn't sure you'd be here," I said. "I thought you might be in Baltimore."

"She told me not to come. She said I'd fuss." Amos lifted a tiny screw with the tweezers. "I fuss by phone."

"How is she?"

"Ask her yourself."

"I can't. It's one of the terms."

"I know about the terms." He looked up, finally, over the glasses. "She tells me everything but how she's eating."

I laid a folder on the bench next to the bag.

"The building's sold," I said. "The firm rents two rooms on Rory's floor now. We kept six people. The hotel tower went to Houston."

"I read that."

"The money is in this envelope. A transfer in your name for one point nine million."

"It's the whole promise, both halves."

Amos turned the folder over with one finger and did not open it.

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