Chapter 5 - THE LOCKED BOX
Gary didn't go back into the house.
He walked straight toward us,
his boots crunching on the dry grass.
He looked at the drawing in the dirt.
He looked at the stick in Ethan’s hand.
For a second,
I saw a flicker of panic in his eyes.
Then it was gone,
replaced by that same,
stony arrogance.
“What are you doing out here,
Ethan?”
he asked,
his voice deceptively soft.
Ethan didn't answer.
He just kept rocking.
“We’re just playing,
Gary,”
I said,
trying to keep my voice steady.
Gary kicked the dirt,
smearing the numbers Ethan had drawn.
“Go inside,
Ethan,”
he commanded.
“Mom has lunch ready.”
Ethan scrambled to his feet and ran toward the house,
not looking back.
Gary turned to me,
his face inches from mine.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,
little girl,”
he whispered.
“I don't know what you’re talking about.”
“You think you’re smart.
You think you can protect him.”
“But the world is a loud place for kids like Ethan.”
“It would be so easy for him to get lost.”
“To have another...
accident.”
The threat was as clear as the afternoon sun.
“If anything happens to him,
I’m going to the police,”
I said.
Gary laughed,
a cold,
dry sound.
“With what?
The drawings of an autistic kid?”
“The police don't listen to kids who repeat the same four words all day.”
He walked away,
leaving me alone in the shadows of the oak tree.
I waited until I heard the kitchen door close.
Then I ran to the old shed at the back of the property.
My father used to keep his tools there.
Since he died,
Mom had kept it locked.
But I knew where the key was.
Under the third loose board on the porch.
My hands were shaking as I fit the key into the lock.
The door groaned open,
smelling of oil and old wood.
Inside,
it was thick with cobwebs.
But there,
in the corner,
was my father’s old metal trunk.
I dragged it into the light.
It was locked with a heavy padlock.
I used a hammer from the workbench to smash the lock.
The metal shrieked as it gave way.
Inside were my father’s work logs.
His old hard hat.
And a thick envelope labeled "DO NOT OPEN."
I opened it.
Inside were photographs of the site.
And a series of letters my father had written to the company.
He had been complaining about Gary Mills for months.
He said Gary was skipping safety checks.
He said the crane was unstable.
And he said he was going to report him to the state board.
The last letter was dated the day before he died.
“Gary knows I’m onto him,”
it said.
“He’s threatened me twice.”
“If anything happens to me,
look at the logs.”
But the logs were missing from the trunk.
There was only a scrap of paper left at the bottom.
A receipt for a payment.
Five hundred thousand dollars.
Paid to Sarah Dawson.
Six months after the accident.
My mother had been paid for her silence.
The "settlement" Gary had mentioned.
May you like
She hadn't just lost her husband.
She had sold him.
