“The motorcycle.”
Caleb pointed toward the garage.
Harold understood.
“Yes.”
Noah studied him.
“Dad said he saved you.”
Caleb groaned.
“I said I helped.”
Harold looked at Noah.
“He saved me.”
Caleb’s face tightened.
Harold continued.
“Your father stood between me and men who were hurting me.”
“That counts.”
Noah looked at Caleb.
Something like pride crossed his face.
Caleb wished it had not.
He did not want his son learning that violence proved courage.
Harold seemed to understand.
“He also called the police.”
“Held pressure on my head.”
“Stayed calm.”
“Those were the important parts.”
Caleb looked grateful.
Noah nodded.
Then asked:
“Did you know Dad has cancer?”
Silence.
Mara covered her mouth.
Caleb closed his eyes.
Harold stared.
Noah looked confused.
“What?”
Caleb said:
“We discussed privacy.”
“You said secrets were bad.”
Mara sat down because she was laughing too hard to stand.
Caleb stared at his son.
“Privacy and secrets are different.”
“How?”
“I’ll develop a presentation.”
Harold smiled, but concern remained.
“I didn't know.”
Caleb shrugged.
“Lymphoma.”
“Treatment started.”
Harold looked toward the garage.
“You were in chemotherapy when you came after those men?”
“No.”
“Diagnosis before.”
“Treatment after.”
Harold’s expression changed.
“You shouldn't have gotten involved.”
Mara pointed at him.
“Thank you.”
Caleb sighed.
Harold sat at the table.
“I need to tell you why they attacked me.”
Caleb’s humor disappeared.
Noah looked interested.
Mara said:
“Noah, upstairs.”
“But—”
“Now.”
“Dad said secrets—”
“Noah.”
The boy knew the tone.
He left reluctantly.
They waited until his footsteps disappeared.
Harold opened his coat.
From an inside pocket, he removed a flash drive.
He placed it on the table.
Mara stared.
“No.”
Harold looked at her.
“I haven't asked anything yet.”
“I’ve seen enough movies to know that object causes trouble.”
Caleb almost smiled.
Harold pushed the drive toward him.
“I worked for Ridgeway Customs for eleven years.”
“Bookkeeping?”
“Taxes.”
“Payroll.”
“Parts orders.”
“Club accounts.”
Caleb knew Ridgeway served several motorcycle clubs.
Most legal.
Some less clean.
Harold continued.
“About eighteen months ago, numbers stopped matching.”
Caleb folded his arms.
“How?”
“Parts billed that never arrived.”
“Cash deposits tied to nonexistent repair jobs.”
“Transport invoices from shell companies.”
Mara sat slowly.
Harold continued.
“I started copying records.”
Caleb looked at the flash drive.
“Why?”
“Because I thought the owner was stealing.”
“Was he?”
“That's the small problem.”
Caleb waited.
Harold looked toward the stairs.
Then lowered his voice.
“The money wasn't staying in the business.”
“Where?”
“I don't know yet.”