“Yours,” Clara said.
Arthur slid a grease stained folder across the formica tabletop and rested his thumb over the metal fastener.
”I found this box behind the parts counter when we cleared out the old office,” he said.
I picked up the top page and looked at the date stamp in the lower corner.
”That date is wrong,” I said.
”The state inspector signed it three weeks after the highway crew cleared the embankment,” Arthur said.
”Whose signature is on the second page?” I asked.
Arthur wiped his palms on his work shirt and reached for his coffee cup.
”The town secretary at the time signed off on the vehicle salvage,” he said.
”She retired before the funeral,” I said.
”She signed it anyway,” Arthur said.
I turned the page and looked at the vehicle identification number listed under the heading.
”This is not the chassis number from the sedan my parents towed away,” I said.
”They swapped the plates before the car went to the salvage yard,” Arthur said.
”How do you know that?” I asked.
”I pulled the winch cable,” Arthur said.
The waitress came by with a glass pitcher and poured more water into our glasses without slowing down.
”Did anyone else look at these town records before today?” I asked.
”Only the people who put them in the box,” Arthur said.
”Who put them there?” I asked.
”Your father brought that box in back when he was on the county roads committee,” Arthur said.
”He told me the office burned down in ninety-eight,” I said.
”The records room had a small kitchen fire behind the soda machine,” Arthur said.
”That is not what he said happened,” I said.
Arthur tapped his spoon against the side of his mug.
”People say a lot of things when they want a quiet town,” he said.
I slid the insurance document into my bag and zipped it shut.
”I need to see the logbook from the night of the accident,” I said.
”The sheriff took those logs home when the department downsized,” Arthur said.
”Which sheriff?” I asked.
”Miller,” Arthur said.
”He lives off county road four now,” I said.
”He does not answer his door for strangers,” Arthur said.
”I am not a stranger,” I said.
”That might make it worse,” Arthur said.
He finished his coffee in one long swallow and stood up from the vinyl booth.
”Leave the folder here when you go,” Arthur said.
”I am taking it with me,” I said.
”Then you did not get it from this diner,” Arthur said.
He dropped a five dollar bill on the laminate table and walked toward the cash register.
I sat there for a minute watching the ice melt in my water glass.
The yellowed newspaper clipping from my purse stayed folded in my pocket where I had put it that morning.
I walked out to the parking lot and set the bag on the passenger seat of my sedan.
The gravel crunched under my tires as I turned onto the highway toward the county line.
Miller lived in a low brick house behind a row of overgrown cedar trees.
I pulled into his empty driveway and left the engine running while I walked up the wooden steps.
The screen door was unlatched and rattled against the frame in the afternoon wind.
I knocked twice on the solid wood door behind it.
An old man with a grey flannel shirt opened the door four inches and peered through the crack.
”The office is closed on Mondays,” Miller said.
”I am not here about driver licenses,” I said.
”Then you are at the wrong house,” Miller said.
”My father sent me to check the highway logs from October sixth,” I said.
Miller stared at me for three long seconds without blinking.
”Your father has not called me since the county board meeting in two thousand,” Miller said.
”He remembers you well enough,” I said.
”Tell him I burned those books when I retired,” Miller said.
”Arthur said you kept them in your basement,” I said.
Miller pushed the door open another two inches.
”Arthur talks too much while he is fixing transmissions,” Miller said.
”Did you sign the accident report for the car on the embankment?” I asked.
”The state police handled that investigation,” Miller said.
”Your signature is on the bottom of the second page,” I said.
Miller looked past my shoulder toward the empty highway.
”The state police wrote the summary and I filed it,” Miller said.
”Was there anyone in that car when it went off the road?” I asked.
”The report says what happened,” Miller said.
”The report is missing the towing receipt,” I said.
Miller reached out and gripped the edge of the screen door.
”You have your father’s habit of asking questions that do not have good answers,” Miller said.
”Whose signature is on the dental form from the clinic downtown?” I asked.
Miller let go of the screen door and stepped back into the dark hallway.
”I never went to that clinic,” Miller said.
”My sister was there this morning,” I said.
Miller stopped moving and his hand dropped to his side.
”That girl was buried ten years ago,” Miller said.
”She was sitting in the waiting room when the receptionist called her name,” I said.
”People see what they want to see after a long time alone,” Miller said.
”She showed me the silver ring our grandmother gave us,” I said.
Miller looked down at his boots and stayed quiet for a long moment.
”Your father told me she went out west,” Miller said.
”He told everyone she was in the car,” I said.
”He brought me the paperwork to sign at four in the morning,” Miller said.
”Why did you sign it?” I asked.
”Because he was chairman of the road committee and the bridge budget depended on him,” Miller said.
”You traded an accident report for road funding?” I said.
”The town needed that bridge built before winter or the school bus could not cross,” Miller said.
”So you pretended my sister died in a fire,” I said.
”I filed the papers your father put on my kitchen table,” Miller said.
”Where is the rest of the file?” I asked.
Miller walked over to an old wooden desk in the front room and picked up a brown envelope.
”I kept this part because I did not trust the state auditor,” Miller said.
He handed the envelope through the crack in the door.
”What is inside this one?” I asked.
”The original tow truck driver’s name and the mileage log,” Miller said.
”Why give it to me now?” I asked.
”Because I am tired of keeping records for men who lie to their children,” Miller said.
He closed the door and turned the deadbolt with a heavy metal click.
I walked back down the wooden steps and got into my car.
I opened the brown envelope on the steering wheel and pulled out a folded sheet of pink carbon paper.
The driver listed on the log was Arthur’s uncle who died five years ago.
The mileage noted on the form matched the distance to the state line, not the bottom of the ravine.
I put the envelope in my bag next to the diner insurance document.
The sun was dropping behind the ridge and turning the sky the color of slate.
I drove back toward town and parked across the street from my parents house.
The porch light was on and the kitchen curtains were drawn shut.
My mother walked past the living room window carrying a stack of white plates.
She stopped for a second and looked out toward the empty street before pulling the blinds all the way down.
I started the engine again and drove three blocks to the small house I rented near the railroad tracks.
The blue ceramic coffee mug from that morning was still sitting on the counter beside the sink.
I filled it with tap water and set it down without turning on the overhead light.
My phone lit up on the small table by the refrigerator with an incoming call from an unlisted number.
I let it ring three times while I stared at the blinking green light.
”I know you have the town records,” my father said when I pressed the answer button.
”You took a long time checking the county archives,” I said.
”Bring those papers back to the house tonight or there will be nothing left of the family trust,” he said.
”The trust was empty six years ago,” I said.
”Your mother wants to talk about the anniversary dinner,” he said.
”Tell her I am busy checking old towing logs,” I said.
”You are making a mistake you cannot fix,” he said.
”The state police are already reading the second page,” I said.
My father hung up without saying goodbye.
I set the phone face down on the table next to the blue mug.
The kitchen was cold enough that I could see my breath near the window glass.
I opened my bag and laid the pink carbon paper out flat under the lamp.
The signature at the bottom was written in my father’s careful handwriting.
I turned off the lamp and sat in the dark listening to the freight train rumble past the edge of town.
The hall light stayed on when I pulled the front door shut behind me. My mother sat at the kitchen island with her hands flat on the polished granite. My father stood near the pantry door holding a glass of tap water he had not touched.
“You should not have listened to strangers,” my mother said.
“She was sitting in a waiting room on Pine Street,” I said.
“People mistake faces every single day,” my father said.
“She has a silver ring on her right hand,” I said.
My mother picked up a spoon from the tray and laid it back down.
“That means nothing to us,” she said.
“Whose signature is on the dental form from Thursday,” I asked.
My father set his glass down so hard the water spilled over the rim.
