Chapter 7 - BENEATH THE WORKBENCH
We did not drive to Grandpa's former house in the middle of the night.
Mr. Collins insisted we contact the current owner and confirm we had permission to visit.
By noon the next day, a retired mechanic named Mr. Bell agreed to let us inspect the old workshop behind his garage.
Rebecca stayed with Olivia at our house while Daniel and I went together.
The workshop smelled of sawdust and machine oil.
Grandpa had built its shelves himself, and seeing the familiar crooked corner on one cabinet made my eyes sting.
Mr. Bell pointed to a heavy workbench along the west wall.
"The seller left it. Never saw a reason to throw it out."
Daniel crouched and shone his flashlight beneath it.
There was a shallow compartment secured by two old screws.
Inside, wrapped in waxed paper, lay an envelope addressed in Grandpa's handwriting.
To Hannah, if she ever has reason to doubt what I wanted.
I sat on the floor before opening it.
The letter was dated six months before his death.
Grandpa wrote that he had learned of Jason's attempts to access money meant for me, and that he feared Margaret would excuse anything her son did.
He had prepared duplicate records and entrusted one set to his attorney.
The letter listed the precise amount he intended me to inherit and emphasized that no family member had any claim on property purchased with it.
The last paragraph was harder to read.
"I love Margaret," Grandpa wrote, "but she mistakes protecting Jason from consequences for protecting him from harm."
Tucked behind the letter was a small memory card in an envelope.
It carried a label in his handwriting: Office camera, April.
Mr. Collins told us to preserve it rather than edit or circulate the contents.
We placed the materials in separate protective sleeves and documented where we had found them.
On the drive home, I remembered how Grandpa used to sit at our kitchen table with his cane beside him.
He always asked about my classes, my plans, and the little house I hoped to own someday.
Jason never stayed long enough to finish a conversation unless money was mentioned.
When we reached home, Rebecca met us at the door.
She had seen an unfamiliar car pass the house four times.
I checked our cameras.
It was Warren Pike's gray sedan, identifiable from an image Tessa had supplied.
At dinner, Mr. Collins called with preliminary news.
The institution had confirmed attempts to obtain copies of my identification using a false authorization.
He was coordinating an appropriate response and warned us not to speculate publicly.
Then he asked about the memory card.
"The file may be important," he said.
"But don't assume it answers everything until we know when it was made and whether it is intact."
We agreed to have a professional make a forensic copy.
I looked at the letter again.
Grandpa had tried to protect me even when he knew he might not be alive to see the result.
At bedtime a text came from my mother.
"I heard you went back to Dad's workshop. Whatever you found belongs to me."
A second message followed.
May you like
"And if you open it, you'll understand why your father disappeared."
