“I never saw them.”
That created another mystery.
But not one requiring conspiracy.
The biker said:
“Maybe wrong address.”
“Maybe returned.”
“Maybe he changed his mind before mailing.”
“I only know what he told me.”
The girl looked at her mother.
“You let me think he was dead.”
“Yes.”
“Every birthday.”
“Yes.”
“Every time I asked what he was like.”
“Yes.”
“You told me stories like he couldn’t answer.”
Her mother started sobbing.
“I know.”
The girl looked away.
She could not forgive anything on a roadside.
The biker said:
“There’s more in the locker.”
The mother’s face hardened.
“No.”
The girl turned.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Mom.”
“Not today.”
“You don’t get to choose that again.”
That sentence stopped her mother.
The girl immediately regretted the cruelty.
But not the truth beneath it.
Her mother lowered her head.
The biker spoke carefully.
“She’s right about one part.”
The mother looked at him.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
The girl held out the key.
“I’m going.”
Her mother stared.
Then:
“Not without me.”
They drove to Colorado Springs the next morning.
Nobody slept much.
The biker drove his pickup.
The girl and her mother followed.
The pink toolbox sat in the back seat.
The girl had returned to the garage briefly before leaving the previous day.
No one mentioned the motorcycle.
The seventeenth mechanic had replaced the weather seal and connector terminals.
The Harley ran perfectly.
The biker paid the shop.
He paid for every unnecessary part they had installed too, because he had authorized the work.
But the garage owner refunded labor on several speculative replacements.
Fair.
The biker respected that.
Now the repaired motorcycle remained locked at home while he drove.
The storage facility stood near an older industrial corridor.
Nothing mysterious.
Beige buildings.
Security gate.
Rows of identical doors.
The girl almost hated how ordinary it looked.
The biker entered a code.
They drove to Row C.
Unit 118.
The brass key did not open the storage door itself.
The biker had the padlock key.
He opened the unit.
Inside:
Shelves.
Boxes.
A motorcycle under a gray cover.
One steel tool cabinet against the rear wall.
Three shallow file marks near the lock.
The girl stopped.
Her mother did too.
The biker said:
“That key.”
The girl approached.
Her hands trembled.
She inserted the brass key.
Turned.
The cabinet unlocked.
Inside were six drawers.
The top held hand tools.
Not expensive.
Used.
Some familiar brands.
Several handles carried three file marks.