I fit the key into the padlock. It turned with a heavy, metallic click.
Mr. Harlow stood at the corner of the shed, watching the house. The kitchen light was still on, and we could see the silhouette of my mother moving back and forth past the window.
“Be quick,” Mr. Harlow said.
I pushed the heavy cedar door open. The interior of the workshop smelled of grease, engine oil, and old cedar sawdust. It was a dry, dark smell that had not changed since I was six years old.
I turned on my small pocket flashlight. The beam cut through the dark, reflecting off the rows of steel wrenches hung in perfect order by size along the pegboard.
“He kept everything exactly where it belonged,” Jake said.
“Except the papers,” I said.
We moved toward the back of the shed, where the heavy timber workbench stood. Above it, a small shelf held old tins of grease, jars of mismatched screws, and three bottles of linseed oil.
