The fact that it’s past ten doesn’t deter me. In fact, that’s even better.
Before I go, I pack up a few supplies and stop by Mrs. Rhodes’s room. Since she doesn’t know I broke up with Clay, I tell her I’m going over to his place and probably won’t be home tonight. There’s no reason not to use this mutually beneficial arrangement; she agrees to cover for me. If my father asks, she’ll say I’m spending the night at Emma’s house.
“Who’s Emma, by the way?” she asks as I’m about to leave.
“A friend from school.” Sort of. The closest I’ve got anyway.
“You have friends?” It’s both playful and snarky, much more informal than Mrs. Rhodes would’ve acted before our talk.
“I’m working on it.”
After exchanging a smile, I slip out the back and jog to the garage. My scrapes are healing and there’s only residual soreness from the old wounds I aggravated in the fall, nothing that should slow me down tonight. I don’t know what I’ll do if the body shop has some elaborate security system, because it’s not like I have Mission: Impossible level equipment and skills.
I make my getaway before my dad reaches the gate, but I’m pretty sure I pass him on the way to town. At least the headlights look right and it resembles him in the brief flash as we speed by in the dark. That feels like a metaphor for our family. It seems weird how concerned he was, only until it became obvious that I’d survive. Once I proved I wasn’t dying, he went back to ignoring me, like near death is the required search criteria, and otherwise, I don’t qualify as worthy of time or attention.
When I get to Mueller’s, I don’t park in the lot; instead I leave my car a few streets over and go in on foot. I walk past to check the place out, and a ferocious dog bark shatters the silence. Damn. So I keep moving, strolling down to the convenience store on the corner. A bell tinkles as I come in, and the guy at the counter looks up from the tabloid he’s reading. I get a chin jerk, then he goes back to the gossip magazine.
My options are limited. In movies they always give the guard dog a drugged steak, but I’m not giving roofies to somebody’s pet. Finally I pick out one turkey sandwich and one roast beef, then take my items to the register.
The cashier rings the stuff up. “Did you know there’s a nest of chupacabras in the Louisiana bayou?”
“I did not.” I pay in cash because I don’t want my card on file in this neighborhood, especially tonight.
“Here’s your change.”
Renton is fairly safe overall, so there are no security cameras outside, and inside they use those concave reflective mirrors to watch potential shoplifters. With this guy on duty, though, I’m pretty sure I could’ve put a six-pack in my panties. As I leave, he’s reading an article about how the royal family in England are probably vampires.
Now I’m ready to make my approach. I circle from the back of the auto body shop, staying alert for the dog, but now that I’m closer, he seems to be inside with the cars they’re currently repairing or restoring. I’m not interested in stealing cars; I just want the information in the office. The lock on the door is high quality, though, with more tumblers than I can manage. Dammit.
There’s a window above the door, strictly for ventilation, but I’m pretty sure I’m thin enough to wriggle through. I take a running leap and, thanks to an exceptional fitness level, I use the wall nearby to kick off, then I latch on to the frame. My biceps tremble as I haul myself up and then swing through. I have to suck in my stomach as far as it’ll go and my breasts get squished in the slide. I land smoothly, thanks to a gymnastic past.
The office is dark, full of junky desks and dusty papers, a rusted filing cabinet and a computer that’s at least five years old. But before I can decide where to start, a low growl comes from the open doorway. From the shadows beyond I can just make out the gleam of angry eyes. Of course the garage connects to the office. Of course it does. I don’t move and try to pretend I’m not scared. Even in the faint light I can tell this dog is huge.
“Good boy,” I whisper.
The sandwiches are crammed in my jacket pocket, so I pull one out and break off a piece. “Good boy. Who’s a good boy? Who wants to eat a sandwich instead of me?”
The low, threatening growl cuts off for a little sniffing; I take that as a good sign and throw part of the sandwich. Some guard dogs are taught not to take food from strangers, but from the sounds I’m hearing, that’s not the case here. I keep whispering and feeding him until the whole sandwich is gone. Now the room is quiet, but I still don’t dare move around.
“You want more?”
The dog makes a slurping sound, which I’m taking as a yes. I feed him the second sandwich slowly, still working on making friends. Before he finishes it, I take a step toward him, ready to run if he growls again, but he seems to accept that I have good intentions. By the time he eats all the food I brought, he’s letting me pet him and I’ve even got his tail wagging. Up close, I can see he’s a German shepherd mix and quite friendly, once he’s sure of me.
He pads into the room as I flip on the computer. Unfortunately, it requires a login and it doesn’t use any operating system I’ve ever seen. So that won’t help. Filing cabinet it is. I open the first drawer and figure out that other than the current year, which is filed by month, everything else is organized by year. I locate the right folder, which is huge, and bring it to the ripped-up sofa. I don’t dare turn on any lights, so I’m using my phone.
My heart hammers like crazy, so loud it echoes in my ears, now that I’m so close to finding some actual information. Each invoice is filed by date, so that helps me, too. There’s no way I could forget the day my mother died. I locate her page about halfway through the stack and am dismayed by how sparse it is. Make of car. Model. Year. License plate number. They’ve filled in all of that, plus some basic notes:
Observed damage: Minor scrape on passenger side, traces of silver paint, ding on rear bumper. Windshield broken. Engine block cracked, frame bent. Radiator smashed. Estimated repair cost exceeds bluebook. Car totaled, per owner’s request, sold to Gabe’s for scrap.
And that’s it.
God, I feel stupid. Was I really expecting to find Brake lines were cut, this was no accident? In retrospect, I should’ve known better. I mean, even if they were cut and the owner took a bribe to keep quiet, he’d hardly write it on the invoice. I put everything back as I found it. Since I’m not stealing anything and the dog is fine, nobody should know about my visit.
This door looks like it will lock behind me, and I don’t see any alarm lights or power lines that indicate it’s wired, so I slip out.
And nearly run into an old guy with a flashlight. Quickly I duck my head so he can’t get a good look at my face, dodge away from his lunge, and sprint full speed toward the street. This is reckless because there’s a car coming but I can’t stop. Pushing harder, I zip past and I hear brakes screeching, and two men are yelling now, but I’m putting distance between us.
Can’t stop, can’t look back.