He stepped closer, smelling faintly of engine grease and peppermint. He glanced around the room, then leaned in.
“If you want to know what really happened to your mom,” he said, “check the bottom drawer in your stepfather’s garage.”
“I… what?”
“I made him a promise,” he continued. “This was part of it.”
“Who are you?” I asked, heart pounding.
He didn’t answer. He stepped back, face unreadable.
“I’m sorry, kid,” he said, handing me his business card. “I wish your parents were here for you.”
And then he was gone, blending into the crowd like he’d never been there.
His words echoed louder than the organ music.
Check the bottom drawer.
That night, when the house was empty, I went back. I didn’t turn on the lights—the dark felt gentler.
The garage door creaked open. The air was thick with oil and cedar from the cabinets Michael had built. My shoes echoed on the concrete as I walked toward the workbench.
The bottom drawer was deeper than the others, built differently. It stuck at first, then gave with a soft groan.
