“That’s Brack’s highest compliment.”
“He said good.”
“Exactly.”
By December, she knew where the club kept everything.
Not because anyone gave her a tour.
Because she noticed.
Calvin noticed her noticing.
He watched the way she reorganized small parts only when the existing system was clearly failing.
He watched her create a handwritten inventory sheet for commonly used bearings after she discovered the club had ordered the same expensive set three times because nobody knew two boxes were already in storage.
That saved several hundred dollars.
She never mentioned it.
Calvin found the corrected inventory clipped beside the cabinet.
He also kept noticing her right hand.
The bruising faded.
The stiffness improved.
Whatever had happened, she was healing.
He still did not ask.
Then the black truck appeared.
It was Tuesday morning in Jory’s fifth week.
Nate had gone outside to roll a motorcycle from the side storage area when he came back through the bay carrying an expression Calvin knew well.
Not panic.
Not anger.
Something closer to calculation.
He stopped beside Calvin.
“Black pickup.”
Calvin looked at him.
“Where?”
“End of the block.”
“How long?”
“Was there when I went out at eight.”
“What’s it doing?”
“Nothing.”
That was usually worse.
Calvin looked toward Jory.
She was at the centre bench rebuilding a carburetor.
Her hands continued moving.
But before Calvin had even turned fully toward the open bay, she glanced once toward the street.
Not long.
Less than a second.
Recognition.
Then she looked back down.
Calvin understood.
She already knew the truck.
He waited.
He could have asked immediately.
Instead he watched another hour.
The truck remained.
Dark Ford F-350.
Late model.
Tinted windows.
Engine occasionally running.
No one entered the garage.
No one approached.
At lunch, Brack left for sandwiches.
Tommy stepped outside to take a phone call.
Calvin poured two coffees.
He put one on the bench near Jory.
She looked at it.
Then at him.
He sat on a stool.
“Tell me about the truck.”
She did not ask which truck.
For a moment she simply held the hot paper cup between both hands.
Then she spoke.
“It belongs to a company Lawrence Devo uses.”
Calvin knew the name.
Most people in Sudbury did.
Devo Developments had put up condominium projects, retail complexes, warehouse conversions, and mixed-use properties across Northern Ontario. Lawrence Devo sat on civic committees, donated publicly, attended planning events, sponsored charity dinners, and appeared regularly in business pages.
He was also known, depending on who was talking, as either aggressive, effective, or dangerous.
“Why’s his truck watching you?”
“He’s been trying to buy Baxter’s Garage for almost two years.”
“Why?”
“Kier Street.”
Jory took a sip of coffee.
“The lot’s at the corner. New projects are pushing toward it. If Devo gets our garage plus the old pharmacy parcel behind us, he gets enough frontage for the mixed-use project he wants.”
“Your father say no?”
“Three times by letter.”
She paused.
“Twice to his face.”
“And after the stroke?”
“He made me an offer six days after Dad went into hospital.”
Calvin’s jaw shifted slightly.
“How generous.”
“Twenty percent below what the land alone was worth.”
“You told him no.”
“I told him to send anything further through our lawyer.”
“You have a lawyer?”