Hattie stared at him.
“So you got van.”
“Yes.”
“For fourteen years?”
“Yes.”
She looked toward the kitchen window where the dented van sat under streetlight.
“If you had stayed, would you have a bigger house?”
“Probably.”
“Better car?”
“Definitely.”
“Would we have money?”
Roy smiled.
“More.”
Hattie became quiet.
Then:
“But then you'd be him.”
Roy looked at her.
“Who?”
“The guy who told the kids not to fix the jet.”
Warren.
Roy did not answer.
Hattie shrugged as if logic were obvious.
“You couldn't have the shop and still be you if being you meant saying no.”
Roy sat opposite her.
Children occasionally say things adults spend decades avoiding.
“Yeah.”
he said.
“Something like that.”
Hattie picked up fork.
“Your spaghetti is burning.”
It was.
Roy laughed.
The next morning Adrienne Sable called at 6:12.
Roy answered from bed.
“This better be an aircraft falling out of the sky.”
“It’s Adrienne.”
He sat up.
“Sorry.”
“No, you're not.”
“No.”
She sounded tired.
“Can you come back to the hangar?”
“What happened?”
“I preserved the records.”
“Good.”
“I interviewed six technicians.”
“And?”
“Your instinct was right.”
Roy rubbed his face.
“How bad?”
“I don't know.”
“That’s why I need you.”
Roy glanced toward the clock.
“Hattie’s school starts at eight fifteen.”
There was a pause.
Adrienne seemed not to have expected that sentence.
“I can send a car.”
“For me?”
“For both of you.”
“She is not arriving at elementary school in a black sedan.”
“Why?”
“Because she has classmates.”
“I had classmates.”
“You were probably terrifying at ten.”
“I was efficient.”
Roy smiled despite himself.
“I'll be there at nine.”
Adrienne said:
“I’m not asking you to fix the jet.”
“I know.”
“I want you to audit Warren’s work.”
Roy stopped smiling.
“No.”
Silence.
Adrienne said:
“You haven't heard the offer.”
“Doesn't matter.”
“I can pay.”
“I'm sure.”
“Then why no?”
“Because I’m one mechanic.”
“You have lawyers.”
“You have accountants.”
“You need investigators.”
“I have those.”
“Then use them.”
“They don't know aircraft.”
Roy looked toward ceiling.