The conversation ended when a customer arrived to collect a repaired motorcycle. Willa returned to work, but the feeling of being watched from the street had acquired a shape and a name. She made herself finish the bike she was servicing before looking out the front window. The navy sedan was gone that morning, and that absence did not comfort her. She knew Tulloch would return when he believed there was something worth seeing.
Sark found the envelope on a Monday afternoon while searching for a box of archived supplier invoices. The old storage room had a shelving unit that tilted away from the wall because one leg was shorter than the others, and Sark had been complaining about it for months without ever finding time to fix it. That day he pulled the shelf forward to retrieve a flat carton lodged behind it. A thick manila envelope slipped out and fell to the floor.
At first he thought it was another misfiled receipt. The envelope was old but not yellowed, with the Northern Shields garage address written carefully on the front and a small notation along the bottom: Hold for Reese McKay. No return address appeared on the outside. There was a second line in handwriting Sark recognized only after he turned it over: Personal documents. Do not discard.
He could have opened it immediately. Instead he brought it to Reese and set it on the desk. "Found this behind the shelving unit. Looks like somebody meant it for you."
Reese read his own name and felt an unexpected pinch of memory. He opened the envelope carefully, as though the paper might tell him how long it had been waiting. Inside was a sealed clear protective sleeve holding a folded statutory declaration and several additional pages, each marked with the date of execution and a reference to accompanying material. The name at the top of the declaration was Grant Henry Deacon of West Haven, Ontario.
Reese sat down. "Where exactly was this?"
"Behind the back shelf, under the old invoice cartons. Why?"
Reese did not answer. He was remembering Grant's final visit. It had been a wet September afternoon, and Grant had come in alone, thinner than before, carrying a large envelope and saying he needed something kept until a particular person was ready to receive it. Reese had directed him toward the small storage office while finishing an urgent call, intending to return and talk properly. By the time Reese was free, Grant had gone, leaving word that the document had been placed with the archived correspondence and that Reese would understand if it ever became necessary.
At the time Reese had believed the envelope was safe inside the locked storage area. Then the shop reorganized its shelving, an employee changed the filing boxes, and the package slipped behind a unit that nobody moved during ordinary work. He had remembered Grant asking for a favor but had not understood what the favor was meant to protect. He had never imagined the answer would come walking through the front door more than a year later in a soaking coat.