Chapter 4 - THE GARAGE THEY TRIED TO ERASE
“Dad, the garage isn't a separate property.”
My father said nothing.
I stood behind the counter at Kim's Laundry, gripping the phone.
“It's attached to the house.”
“I know.”
“Then what are you talking about?”
He exhaled.
“Diane arranged for the equipment and everything inside to be cleared out before an appraisal. She's calling it a renovation.”
I closed my eyes.
He had said putting the garage on the market because he knew those words would frighten me.
And they had.
“Then why did you say she was selling it?”
“Because she's selling the equipment and the contents through an estate-liquidation company.”
My mother's workbench.
Her shelves.
Her old measuring equipment.
The cabinets she'd labeled by hand.
Everything.
I leaned against the counter.
“You're letting her?”
“Lily—”
“Answer me.”
His voice grew strained.
“I don't know how to stop this anymore.”
I almost dropped the phone.
For years, my father had been the man who decided everything.
Where we went on vacation.
What car we bought.
What rules mattered.
And now he was telling his daughter he couldn't stop his wife from clearing out a garage.
“Then maybe you should have thought about that before you threw me out.”
I ended the call.
Mrs. Kim looked up from her crossword puzzle.
“Bad news?”
“They're getting rid of my mother's things.”
She took off her reading glasses.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Then finish your shift.”
I stared.
“What?”
“You can't go over there shaking like a leaf and expect to accomplish anything. Finish your shift. Eat something. Make a plan.”
I hated that she was right.
That evening, Elaine helped me identify which equipment and records might matter.
She warned me that possession wasn't the same as ownership.
The original research could still be protected by agreements, intellectual property rights, or evidence of misappropriation.
But we needed documentation.
And we needed to avoid making accusations we couldn't prove.
At eight the next morning, Brooke met me outside the house.
She wore a gray sweatshirt and looked as if she hadn't slept.
“Mom's inside,” she whispered. “Dad's at work.”
I looked at the garage.
A white truck was parked in the driveway.
Two workers were carrying out an old metal shelving unit.
I recognized it immediately.
Mom had painted the bottom shelf green because she'd once spilled foundation across it.
I walked toward the workers.
“Excuse me.”
One stopped.
“Yeah?”
“That belonged to my mother.”
He glanced toward the house.
“We're just following the work order.”
“Can you please set it down until I speak to the homeowner?”
He hesitated, then nodded.
Diane appeared before I reached the garage.
“Well.”
She stood on the porch wearing a cream sweater and expensive boots.
“Look who decided to visit.”
I kept my voice steady.
“I came for Mom's research.”
“Your mother's research belongs to the family.”
“I'm part of the family.”
Her expression tightened.
“You stopped acting like it.”
Brooke stepped forward.
“Mom, please.”
Diane raised a hand.
“Not now.”
I looked past her.
Inside the garage, my mother's workbench had already been stripped.
Her old chair sat near the truck.
One leg was broken.
I remembered sitting in that chair when I was eleven, watching Mom mix colors on a white ceramic tile.
She would hold two shades beside my cheek and ask which looked more natural.
I always picked the wrong one.
She always laughed.
Now strangers were preparing to throw that chair away.
I turned back to Diane.
“I want my mother's things.”
She crossed her arms.
“Your father signed the paperwork transferring ownership of the house and its contents when we refinanced.”
“I'm not asking for the house.”
“Then you have no reason to be here.”
She lowered her voice.
“You've spent two years making Richard miserable over that formula. He barely sleeps. He worries about you constantly.”
I almost spoke.
Then Diane surprised me.
“You think I wanted this?”
For a moment, she looked genuinely tired.
“When I married your father, we were behind on the mortgage. There were medical debts. Collection notices. Your mother had left behind boxes of paperwork and equipment nobody understood.”
“My mother didn't leave behind debts on purpose.”
“I didn't say she did.”
Diane looked toward the garage.
“I spent years trying to make this house feel like a home. Every time I changed something, you accused me of erasing Anna.”
“You threw away her Christmas ornaments.”
“Because they were broken.”
“You took down her photographs.”
“Because I was tired of feeling like a visitor in my own marriage.”
Her voice cracked slightly.
Then she straightened.
“That doesn't excuse everything. But I'm not the monster you've made me out to be.”
I stared at her.
For a second, I saw somebody other than the woman who had locked the door on my birthday.
I saw a person who had spent years competing with a memory.
Then she said, “If you leave now, I won't call the police.”
And the moment was gone.
Brooke suddenly spoke.
“Dad told me the blue folder belongs to Lily.”
Diane turned.
“What?”
“He said it last night.”
“Brooke, stop.”
“He said it was supposed to go with Anna's notebook.”
Diane's face changed.
It happened quickly.
But I saw it.
“Where is it?” I asked.
She looked away.
“I don't know.”
“Diane.”
“I said I don't know.”
Brooke pointed toward the garage.
“The filing cabinet.”
Diane stepped directly in front of us.
“Nobody is opening that cabinet.”
The workers stopped carrying furniture.
Even they seemed to understand something was wrong.
I moved closer.
“Why?”
Diane's voice was barely audible.
“Because your mother wasn't the only person who put something in there.”
Before I could answer, my father pulled into the driveway.
He got out so quickly he left the driver's door open.
“Stop!”
Everyone turned.
He hurried toward the garage.
“Don't touch the cabinet.”
Diane stared at him.
“Richard, we agreed—”
“No.”
For the first time in years, my father sounded certain.
He looked directly at me.
“Lily, come here.”
I didn't move.
He swallowed.
“Please.”
I followed him into the garage.
The old metal filing cabinet stood beneath the window.
Its bottom drawer was locked.
Dad took a small brass key from his pocket.
He held it for a moment.
Then he opened the drawer.
Inside were three blue folders.
He removed the first.
Then the second.
Then he reached for the third.
Diane made a sharp sound behind us.
“Richard.”
He ignored her.
He opened the folder.
Inside was a photograph of my mother lying in a hospital bed.
She was holding a small silver bracelet.
My bracelet.
The one Brooke had brought me.
Beneath the photograph was a handwritten letter.
My father looked at me.
Tears filled his eyes.
“Your mother wrote this the week before she died.”
He handed it to me.
I recognized her handwriting immediately.
May you like
The first sentence made my knees weak.
Richard, if Lily ever discovers what we agreed to do, please tell her why I made you promise to keep the first payment hidden.
