Chapter 2: The Brass Tag in the Dirt

The garage still smelled like Danny, a mix of gasoline, old oil, and the faint, sweet scent of the leather Danny used for his tool rolls. I was trying to scrub out a dark, sticky oil stain near the workbench, a fresh one Arthur’s boot had tracked in. It was a chore I usually left to Danny. Now it was just another thing.

My sponge scraped something hard.

I knelt, pushing aside a greasy rag. Under the workbench, half-buried in a pile of sawdust and metal shavings, glinted a small, dull piece of brass. It was an ignition key tag.

The kind dealerships used to label spare keys, but this one was custom. It was stamped with the logo of Arthur Gentry’s business: “Gentry Salvage – Est. 1998.” Underneath, a tiny number: “1:15 AM.”

My stomach dropped. Danny never went to salvage yards in the middle of the night. This tag wasn’t from him. It had to be Arthur’s.

He hadn’t just *seen* the bike from the driveway, like he claimed. He had come into our garage. At 1:15 in the morning.

I picked up the tag, the cold metal digging into my palm. My hands trembled. He had snuck onto our property, probably picked the lock, and walked right in. My chest felt tight, a mix of anger and something colder, like fear.

I pulled out my phone, my thumb fumbling through my contacts for Uncle Marcus. He was a veteran mechanic, worked on heavy equipment for the county. He knew every part, every tool, and every shady operator in a hundred-mile radius.

The phone rang twice.

“Leo? Everything alright?” Marcus’s voice was gruff but always steady.

“No, Uncle Marcus,” I said, my voice a little shaky. “It’s Arthur Gentry again. I found something in the garage.”

I described the brass tag, the salvage yard logo, the time stamp.

“A 1:15 AM stamp?” Marcus repeated slowly. There was a pause, a low whistle on his end. “That’s a lockout tag, Leo. For a keyless entry. Usually used to track when a service vehicle enters a secured lot after hours.”

He paused again.

“He was casing the place,” Marcus finished, his voice hard. “Before he even showed his face in the light of day. That man is trouble, Leo.”

“What do we do?” I asked, my grip tightening on the brass tag.

“You hold onto that,” he said. “Don’t let it out of your sight. I’ll be over first thing tomorrow after my shift. We’re going through Danny’s old equipment records. Every single one.”

The line clicked. I stood there, the little brass tag heavy in my hand. Arthur Gentry wasn’t just some guy with bad paperwork. He was a prowler, a liar, and he’d been in our home while we were sleeping.