“I saw him touching the padlock on your old garden shed too,” Mr. Palmer said.
“The one by the fence?” I asked.
“That’s the one,” he said. “He had a tool in his hand but he cleared out when my screen door squeaked.”
I looked down at the gravel by my feet. There were fresh tire tracks near the culvert, wider than a standard sedan.
The tire iron was heavy and cold in my hand.
I carried it inside and set it on the kitchen counter next to a twelve-dollar grocery receipt.
The heavy piece of iron rested against the wooden cutting board, its dull grey surface scarred from years of hard use.
The hum of the window air conditioner filled the small kitchen, rattling the loose plastic trim on the side of the metal casing.
In the living room, the green metal military trunk sat in the corner behind the armchair, half-hidden by a folded wool blanket.
