Grip stood. "Yes, ma'am. Silas Henderson."
"Did you threaten my son?"
The room went silent. I wanted to disappear behind the tool cabinet.
Grip answered without trying to make himself sound better. "I said something I shouldn't have. I was angry, and I was frightened about getting hurt on that bike again. I owe him an apology."
My mother waited. She could do that better than anyone, wait while the person standing before her found the courage to be specific.
"Caleb," Grip said, turning toward me, "you were right to demand evidence, and I was wrong to bring my frustration here as a threat. I won't do it again."
"Thank you," I said.
My mother gave one satisfied nod, as though a problem had been repaired properly, and asked where I kept the broom. I told her I could clean the shop myself. She said she knew that, then swept the front office anyway. For the rest of the afternoon she remained near the counter, sorting old invoices into stacks while I worked. Her presence made me understand that accepting help was not the same thing as surrendering ownership of my life.
At two, Jack's attorney called. Her name was Ellen Pierce, and she had a voice that made complicated facts sound orderly without making them sound small. She asked for copies of my notes, not the originals; requested the photographs in their original form; and told me to distinguish carefully between what I observed and what others told me afterward. She also recommended that I make a formal report about the threat, since silence would serve nobody if it escalated.
"If someone threatens you again," she said, "get somewhere safe and contact law enforcement. No business is worth testing how serious a stranger is about hurting you."
It was the kind of advice I hoped never to need. I wrote it down anyway. Hector would have approved.
Meanwhile, Delgado had become harder to reach. Jack told us he had made one unwise call late the previous night after leaving the garage. He had called somebody connected to Pruitt, apparently to ask whether the people behind the job already knew he'd spoken. The recipient couldn't be established, but the timing worried everyone. Delgado had surrendered his silence, then reached for it again out of fear.
"Do you think he betrayed us?" I asked.
Grip shook his head. "I think fear makes people do stupid things. That's different from planning harm, but the consequences can be just as serious."
"Is he safe?"
"He's with his lawyer and family. He's been advised not to make any more calls."
I was relieved. I didn't like Delgado, and I didn't trust him, but I didn't want the man punished for finally doing what he should have done months earlier. I wanted him to tell the truth, then face whatever responsibility belonged to him. That was a harder kind of justice than the versions people shouted about.