Chapter 2 - THE WATCH ON THE TABLE
Grace pushed the envelope back toward Arthur.
“No.”
Arthur didn't touch it.
“You haven't even read everything inside.”
“I read enough.”
Her voice was still weak from the infection, but I knew that tone.
It was the same voice she used when a landlord tried to scare her or when somebody talked down to Annie because her sneakers were worn.
Arthur glanced at the scratched watch.
“Grace—”
“Take your money.”
Annie looked up from the couch.
“But Gracie, nursing school.”
Grace's face softened for half a second.
Then it hardened again.
“We'll figure something out.”
Arthur remained standing.
“What aren't you telling these children?”
Grace went completely still.
That scared me more than shouting would have.
I stepped closer to the table.
“What does he mean?”
“Caleb, not now.”
“No. Now.”
For two years, Grace had decided what we could handle.
Bills.
The accident.
Why Mom's clothes had disappeared into cardboard boxes.
Why Dad's tools had been sold except for one dented toolbox nobody wanted.
Maybe she had been right.
But I was tired of being protected by secrets.
Arthur placed both hands on the back of a chair.
“Your sister has every reason to be angry with me.”
Grace laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“That's convenient.”
“Grace.”
“You own Whitmore Transportation.”
“Not anymore. My son runs the company.”
“You built it.”
“Yes.”
“Our parents were killed by one of your trucks.”
The room changed.
I actually felt it.
Like somebody had opened a door in winter.
Annie's hand found mine.
“What?”
Grace closed her eyes.
I stared at her.
“You said it was a highway accident.”
“It was.”
“You never said—”
“I didn't want you growing up hating a name.”
Arthur looked older than he had in his garden.
Grace pointed toward the door.
“You should leave.”
Instead, Arthur looked at the watch.
“May I?”
“No.”
He nodded as if he deserved that answer.
The watch had belonged to Dad.
Silver-colored case. Cracked crystal. Brown leather strap replaced so many times the buckle didn't match.
It had stopped at 8:17.
The time of the crash.
Grace kept it beside her bed until she got sick, then moved it to the table because Annie had been winding it every morning even though it never worked.
Arthur swallowed.
“I gave Nathan that watch.”
Grace's face lost some of its anger.
Not all.
“What?”
“Your father.”
“You knew Dad?” I asked.
Arthur looked at me.
“Very well once.”
Grace slowly sat down.
“You told me you recognized Caleb and Annie from the photograph in my wallet.”
“I did.”
“You didn't mention knowing our father.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Arthur glanced toward us.
Grace understood.
“They stay.”
I squeezed Annie's hand tighter.
Arthur sat.
“Your father worked for Whitmore Transportation for nine years.”
My mouth opened.
Dad had told us he fixed heavy equipment.
He never said whose.
“He was one of the best mechanics we had,” Arthur continued. “Stubborn. Difficult. Completely incapable of pretending something was safe when it wasn't.”
That sounded like Dad.
Grace stared at Arthur.
“The police report said the truck skidded in heavy rain.”
“It did.”
“Then why are you looking at his watch like it's evidence?”
Arthur didn't answer immediately.
Grace reached across the table, picked it up and turned it over.
I had seen the back hundreds of times.
Scratched metal.
A shallow dent.
Nothing special.
Arthur held out his hand.
“There's an inner cover.”
Grace hesitated.
Then she gave him the watch.
Arthur pressed his thumbnail beside a tiny notch none of us had noticed.
The back popped open.
Inside was an engraving.
Grace leaned forward.
So did I.
For Nathan Foster — for telling the truth when silence was easier. A.W.
My stomach tightened.
“You wrote that?” I asked.
“I had it engraved.”
“Why?”
Arthur looked at me.
“Your father stopped a depot fire from becoming a catastrophe. He smelled burning insulation after everyone else had gone home. Found an electrical panel overheating beside a fuel storage area. He got three night workers out before the fire spread.”
“That isn't telling the truth,” Grace said.
“No.”
Arthur closed the watch.
“The inscription came later.”
Grace's expression sharpened.
“What happened later?”
Arthur looked toward the kitchen window.
For several seconds, all I could hear was our refrigerator humming.
“Your father told me we had trucks being released from maintenance that should never have been returned to the road.”
Grace's fingers curled around the edge of the table.
“When?”
“Two weeks before your parents died.”
Nobody spoke.
Annie whispered, “Was it the same truck?”
Arthur didn't answer.
Grace rose too quickly, swayed, and grabbed the chair.
I caught her elbow.
“You need to sit.”
“I need him to answer.”
Arthur's face had changed completely.
The arrogant old man at the gate was gone.
So was the generous stranger with the scholarship.
This was somebody carrying something heavy.
“Yes,” he finally said.
Grace froze.
Arthur continued quietly.
“Your father specifically mentioned Unit 417.”
I remembered the number because Grace had once thrown away a newspaper clipping before I could finish reading it.
Unit 417.
The truck that crossed the center line.
The truck that killed Mom and Dad.
Grace's voice shook.
“And what did you do?”
“I told Nathan I'd handle it.”
“Did you?”
“I believed I had.”
“That isn't an answer.”
Arthur looked down at his hands.
“I sent his concerns to my son, Harrison. He had already taken over daily operations by then.”
“And Harrison?”
“He told me the truck had been inspected and repaired.”
Grace laughed again.
This time tears filled her eyes.
“Then either my father was wrong or somebody lied.”
Arthur looked at the dead watch.
“Your father was almost never wrong about machinery.”
A terrible thought entered my mind.
“You knew after they died.”
Arthur looked at me.
“I knew the truck number when I read about the accident.”
“And you did nothing?”
“Caleb—”
“You did nothing?”
His jaw tightened.
“I demanded records.”
“And?”
“They showed the brake system had been serviced four days before the crash.”
Grace stared at him.
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because I saw something later.”
She went still.
“What?”
Arthur turned the watch over again.
“Three months after the accident, I found a photograph among Eleanor's things.”
“Your wife?”
“Yes.”
He looked at Grace.
“In the photograph, your father was standing beside Unit 417.”
Grace's breathing changed.
“And?”
“He was holding a red maintenance tag.”
Arthur paused.
“The kind our mechanics used for vehicles that were forbidden from leaving the yard.”
My skin prickled.
Grace whispered, “When was the picture taken?”
“The day after the company claimed the truck had been repaired.”
Nobody moved.
Then Grace walked unsteadily toward her bedroom.
She returned holding an old envelope.
Inside was a faded photograph.
Dad stood beside a younger Arthur at what looked like a company picnic.
Grace turned it over.
On the back, somebody had written four words.
Nathan was right. H knows.
Arthur stared at the handwriting.
His face went white.
“Where did you get this?”
“Mom's winter coat.”
Arthur looked up sharply.
Grace's voice cracked.
“That photograph is why I took the cleaning job at your house.”
I stared at her.
“You went there on purpose?”
“Yes.”
“To investigate him?”
Grace nodded.
Arthur's eyes stayed on the handwriting.
“No,” he whispered.
Grace frowned.
“What?”
Arthur looked at us.
“That isn't your mother's handwriting.”
He lifted the photograph with trembling fingers.
“It belonged to Eleanor.”
Grace stared.
Arthur swallowed.
“And if Eleanor wrote this…”
His eyes moved to the final two words.
“H knows.”
“…then my wife knew somebody inside Whitmore Transportation was lying before your parents died.”
He stood suddenly.
“There's something at my house you need to see.”
Grace didn't move.
“What?”
Arthur looked at Dad's watch.
Then at the photograph.
“A box I haven't opened since Eleanor's funeral.”
His voice dropped.
“And if what I think is inside that box is still there, Grace, your father didn't die because of one bad repair.”
May you like
He met her eyes.
“He died after trying to expose something much bigger.”
