“Did Frank have a safe-deposit box?”
Her mother frowned.
“Not that I know of.”
“Storage unit?”
“No.”
“Second garage?”
“No.”
“Office?”
“He worked from home.”
The investigator glanced at Sophie.
“Anywhere he kept things people wouldn't immediately associate with motorcycle repairs?”
Sophie opened her mouth.
Stopped.
Bear noticed.
“What?”
She looked at her mother.
“Grandpa’s church.”
Her mother blinked.
“What about it?”
“He helped fix stuff there.”
“So?”
“The basement.”
She turned toward Bear.
“Grandpa kept an old toolbox there.”
“How do you know?”
“He took me once.”
“The church had a broken furnace.”
“He said the toolbox stayed because Pastor Reed always needed something.”
Her mother stared.
“When?”
“Last winter.”
The investigator closed his notebook.
“What church?”
Forty minutes later they were standing beneath the sanctuary of a small brick church on the outskirts of town.
Pastor Reed remembered Frank immediately.
“He fixed everything.”
The old minister smiled sadly.
“Usually while complaining whoever installed it originally had no business owning tools.”
Sophie almost laughed.
That sounded like Grandpa too.
The basement smelled of concrete, dust, and old hymn books.
A metal shelving unit stood beside the furnace.
On the bottom shelf rested a dented green toolbox.
Sophie recognized it.
“That one.”
The investigator photographed it before touching anything.
The box was not locked.
Inside were ordinary tools.
Pliers.
Screwdrivers.
A multimeter.
Electrical tape.
A small flashlight.
Nothing else.
Sophie’s heart dropped.
Then the investigator removed the shallow upper tray.
Beneath it sat a sealed brown envelope.
Her mother covered her mouth.
Written across the front in Frank Lane’s block handwriting:
IF I’M WRONG, BURN THIS. IF I’M RIGHT, DON’T LET THEM CALL IT AN ACCIDENT.
Nobody spoke.
The investigator did not open it there.
He photographed the envelope, sealed it in an evidence bag, and took it back to the county office.
Sophie wanted to go.
Her mother refused.
For once, Sophie did not argue.
They waited at Aunt Rachel’s house.
Two hours.
Three.
Bear left once and returned with sandwiches nobody touched.
At 1:40 in the afternoon, the investigator called Sophie’s mother.
Her face changed while she listened.
“What?”
Sophie stood.
Her mother raised one hand.
Kept listening.
Then:
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I understand.”
After hanging up, she sat without speaking.
Sophie’s stomach tightened.
“Mom.”
Her mother looked toward Bear.
Then Sophie.
“The envelope had copies of repair records.”
Sophie waited.
“And a letter.”
“From Grandpa?”
“Yes.”
“To who?”
“The sheriff.”
Bear’s jaw tightened.
Sophie whispered:
“What did it say?”
Her mother stared at the phone.
“Your grandfather believed Leon Voss had been deliberately damaging motorcycles.”
Sophie felt cold despite the summer heat.
“He had been trying to prove it for almost three years.”
Bear sat heavily.