“Ethan goes to Oakridge Public High School,” I said.

“His schooling is free.”

“Then you’d better go see what your father’s got parked in his garage,” Arthur said.

By two that afternoon, cold autumn rain was beating against the leaded glass windows of the old houses on Pine Street.

I parked my sedan two houses down, walked up the wet gravel driveway, and slipped down the side path toward the three-car garage behind my parents’ brick house.

The wooden side door set into the cedar shingles of the old garage was unlatched, sitting an inch open against its frame.