The grass was soaked with heavy dew, which seeped through the canvas toes of my shoes as I crossed to the detached garage.

The padlock on the side door was open.

Zane had been working out there before dinner, and the air still smelled of motor oil and sawdust.

I shut the wooden door behind me and switched on the dim forty-watt bulb that dangled from the middle rafter on a frayed cord.

His wooden workbench ran along the back wall, cluttered with paint cans, rusty wrenches and plastic jars full of mixed wood screws.

I opened the top center drawer.