The ride into town felt longer than it had in the pickup that morning. Ethan sat in Doyle's passenger seat and watched his bandaged hands resting on his knees. She asked about his training, his work at the garage, and where he'd learned to preserve documents. He told her about Russell and the statements he'd copied while he was still a child. Doyle listened without trying to turn the conversation into an interview about something he hadn't come to discuss.
“You should know something,” she said when he'd finished. “If you ever want to look into the financial support that was meant for your care, there are organizations that can help you understand those records. You don't have to do it alone.”
Ethan stared at the dashboard. “I thought once I left the house, that was over.”
“Leaving a bad situation is a beginning. It doesn't mean the questions disappear.”
He thought of the folder containing his mother's picture and wondered whether he was finally strong enough to ask what had really happened to the money. But the immediate problem was Jack's garage, and he promised himself not to let the older man's situation become an excuse to avoid every part of his own history. He would return to the question when the day was over, if the day ever ended.
At the bank, Martin took them into a small conference room and verified Ethan's identification. He brought out the sealed items Ethan requested, and Doyle documented their condition before making the transfer with Ethan's written consent. They listed the contents one by one, preserved the originals, and made copies for Ethan. Martin signed as a witness to the exchange and gave Ethan a receipt that he folded carefully into his wallet.
“You're becoming quite the expert on paperwork,” Martin said while they finished.
“I used to think paperwork just meant trouble,” Ethan replied.
“Sometimes,” Martin said, “it means the difference between what someone says and what can be shown.”
When they returned to the car, dusk had begun settling over Red Creek. The mountains were darkening, and the first porch lights appeared along the highway. Doyle's phone rang as she pulled away from the bank. She answered through the car's hands-free system, listened for several seconds, then asked the caller to repeat the name of the requesting office. Her expression grew colder.
After the call ended, she pulled into a safe turnout instead of continuing. Ethan turned toward her. “What is it?”
“Caldwell has another move underway,” she said. “A complaint was submitted months ago alleging Jack operates a stolen-parts business. It contains what looks like manufactured invoices and a witness statement. A county prosecutor is asking investigators to move quickly on it.”
“Jack doesn't run anything like that.”
“I believe you, but belief isn't a substitute for review. False evidence can still do damage if the people handling it don't ask the right questions.”
Ethan's mouth went dry. “Are they going to arrest him?”