Chapter 4 - The Locks Are Changed
We spent three hours at the urgent care clinic down the road. Grant needed six stitches to close the tear in his lip, his jaw bruised into a dark, mottled purple. Sadie sat quietly on the examination table while a kind nurse named Elena helped me wash the stale beer out of her hair using gentle baby shampoo in the sink.
Sadie didn't say much until we got into the truck to drive back to Hinesville.
""Daddy?"" she asked quietly from the backseat, clutching a stuffed bear the clinic had given her. ""Did Uncle Travis do that because he hates me?""
Grant gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. His shoulders trembled, the stitches on his lip pulling tight as he fought back tears. He looked into the rearview mirror, meeting Sadie's worried brown eyes.
""No, sweetie,"" Grant said, his voice thick with emotion. ""Uncle Travis did that because he is a very broken, cowardly man. You are the best thing in this world, Sadie. None of this was your fault. Not one bit.""
When we pulled into our driveway, Grant sat staring at the steering wheel for a long time after the engine died. The reality of his mother’s threat was settling in like a suffocating blanket. Whitaker Auto and Tire was the only livelihood he had known since he was nineteen years old. We had a mortgage, Sadie’s school expenses, and regular bills. Military pay was steady, but Grant's income was what kept our household comfortable and built our savings.
""She’s really going to lock me out, Audrey,"" Grant whispered, his head resting against the glass of the driver's window. ""She’ll fire me. She’ll let Travis ruin the business before she admits he was wrong.""
""Then let her try,"" I said firmly, taking his rough, grease-stained hand into mine. ""You're the mechanic, Grant. You're the one whose name customers trust. Travis can't balance a carburetor, let alone run that shop without you.""
On Monday morning at 6:30 AM, Grant drove to Whitaker Auto. I followed him in my SUV.
Just as Darlene had threatened, the heavy steel roll-up bay doors were locked down with brand-new padlocks. Taped to the glass front door of the customer office was a handwritten sign on bright yellow poster board:
NOTICE: GRANT WHITAKER IS NO LONGER EMPLOYED BY WHITAKER AUTO. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
Inside the glass, Darlene sat behind the front counter, arms crossed, watching us with a smug, defiant smirk. Travis stood behind her, his right arm bound tightly in a fiberglass cast, looking out through the reinforced window like a king looking over a conquered kingdom. He gave Grant a slow, one-handed middle finger.
Grant stood on the asphalt, staring at the sign. The cold morning wind blew across the lot. He pulled his ring of master keys from his pocket—keys he had carried for fifteen years—and held them in his palm.
""Don't give them back to her,"" I said softly, stepping up beside him.
""They aren't mine anymore,"" Grant replied quietly.
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Instead of dropping them in the mail slot or throwing them at the glass, Grant turned his back on the shop. He walked over to the edge of the lot, looked at the building his father had poured his life into, and took a deep, clean breath.
""Come on, Audrey,"" he said, his voice steadying for the first time in forty-eight hours. ""Let's go get some breakfast.""
