I stood frozen, my eyes locked on the thing resting on that dish towel. It was an old steel wrench, dark with age, with letters scratched into the handle. Walt lowered himself back into his chair, and his hands started to shake. “Ruth,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I gave you that the day we opened.” I turned to my mother. She had never told me she knew this man by his first name.

Through the glass wall I could see Colton in the bay, laughing with a customer. Walt tapped the estimate with a trembling finger. “Ball joints,” he said. “Ruth, do you know what he has been doing in my shop?” Mom folded her hands. “I think so,” she said. “But I wanted to hear you say it.” Then Walt opened his bottom drawer and pulled out something that made my mother go pale.