I was not emotionally ready to sort through Jack’s belongings. I just had this horrible feeling that he had left something unfinished behind, and I was the only person who had not realized it yet.
At the bottom of his toolbox, connected to a small battery pack, I found one of his old backup phones.
That nearly broke me.
It was such a Jack thing to do. Quiet. Practical. Prepared.
I powered it on.
There was only one recent video.
I opened it.
The camera looked as though it had been propped high on a shelf overlooking the garage. Jack stood beside his workbench. Under his hand sat a thick cream-colored envelope stamped with the factory logo.
Then Karen walked into view.
I stopped breathing for a second.
She did not look grieving.
She looked cornered.
“Jack,” she said, “give me the drive.”
He did not move. “It’s not yours.”
“It has my name on it.”
“It has everyone’s name on it.”
Karen stepped closer. “I only signed what they put in front of me.”
Jack’s voice hardened. “You signed maintenance sheets for machines that hadn’t been inspected in months. You signed off on parts that never arrived. You let them keep running line seven because shutting it down would cost too much.”
Karen’s expression shifted.
Not guilt.
Fear.
read more in next page
