Chapter 3 - The Paint Behind Gary's Workbench
I did not call Detective Reed because I thought Gary murdered my father.
Not yet.
I called because I found paint.
Gary kept part of our garage for personal projects.
Nobody touched his workbench.
One Saturday he drove Mom to Cincinnati for a wedding.
Ethan and I were looking for Dad's camping lantern.
Behind a stack of sanding discs, I found an old quart can.
Automotive paint.
Label:
Forest Ridge Green Pearl.
Manufacturer code.
Date.
Batch number.
The can was almost empty.
“Brooke?”
Ethan stood behind me.
He looked at the color.
Then stopped moving.
“That's it.”
“What?”
“The truck.”
My skin went cold.
“What truck?”
He pointed at the can.
“The green one.”
I crouched.
“From your drawings?”
He nodded.
“Where did you see it?”
His face changed.
Confused.
“I don't know.”
I did not push.
That was the first smart thing I did.
I photographed the can.
Then found an old invoice tucked beneath a drawer liner.
Mills Collision & Restoration.
Three years earlier.
The morning after Dad died.
Repair authorization:
2016 Ford F-150.
Front passenger-side body work.
Headlamp replacement.
Bumper correction.
Right mirror.
Paint blending.
Customer:
Internal / G. Mills.
I sat on the garage floor.
Gary had owned a green Ford pickup.
I remembered it vaguely.
He drove a black Silverado now.
When I asked Mom later:
“Didn't Gary used to have a green truck?”
Her spoon stopped.
“Years ago.”
“What happened to it?”
“Sold it.”
“When?”
“I don't know.”
Gary entered the kitchen behind me.
“What are we talking about?”
“Your old truck.”
His face gave me nothing.
“Which one?”
“The green Ford.”
“Got totaled by a deer.”
“When?”
“Before I started seeing your mother.”
“Where is it?”
He smiled.
“Why are you asking?”
Something about his voice told me to stop.
So I did.
That night, I searched Dad's case online.
The original news article mentioned:
possible dark-green pickup or SUV.
I barely slept.
The next afternoon, I found Detective Samuel Reed's card in an old box of Dad's case papers.
He had been with the Franklin County Sheriff's Office at the time.
Now he worked cold cases with a regional major-crimes task force.
I called from the school parking lot.
“This is going to sound stupid.”
“Most useful calls begin that way.”
I told him about the truck.
Paint.
Invoice.
Ethan's drawings.
Reed did not say:
You solved it.
He said:
“Do not confront anyone.”
“My brother remembers something.”
“Then do not question him yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because he's nine.”
That answer irritated me.
Then I understood.
Ethan was my brother.
Not my witness.
Reed asked me to send photographs.
I did.
Three days later he called.
“The paint code is interesting.”
My heart raced.
“Is it a match?”
“No.”
“What?”
“We don't have enough yet to call it that.”
Accuracy.
I would learn to appreciate it later.
Then he said:
“Brooke, was Ethan home the night your father died?”
“Yes.”
“With you?”
I opened my mouth.
Stopped.
I had been sleeping at my friend Kelsey's house.
“Mom.”
“And Gary?”
“They weren't together then.”
Silence.
“Brooke.”
“What?”
“That's not what I asked.”
May you like
I suddenly felt cold.
“I don't know.”
