Armed with Maya’s discovery, I knew we had to confront Arthur, but not blindly. We needed more. Uncle Marcus said knowing your enemy was half the battle. So, a few days later, Sam and I headed out to Gentry Salvage.
The yard was on the far edge of town, a sprawling, chaotic landscape of rusted cars, twisted metal, and mountains of discarded appliances. It smelled of oil, damp earth, and decaying rubber. The front office was a small, dusty shack next to a towering stack of crushed cars.
We walked in, the bell above the door jangling loudly. The interior was dim, cluttered with old invoices, stacks of tires, and a half-eaten sandwich on the counter. Arthur Gentry was on the phone, his back to us, his voice low and strained.
“I told you,” he hissed into the receiver, “I’ll get the $38,000. Just give me another week. My wife’s medical bills… they piled up fast. I need time.”
Sam and I exchanged a glance. Thirty-eight thousand dollars. Medical bills. My mind immediately went to Nora, to the pile of bills that had been overwhelming her since Danny’s accident.
Arthur’s shoulders were hunched, his voice laced with a desperation I hadn’t heard before. He wasn’t the confident, intimidating figure who had shown up at our driveway. He sounded broken.
He slammed the phone down, not noticing us yet. He ran a hand through his thinning hair, his face pale and drawn. He looked much older than 52, etched with exhaustion and worry lines.
Behind him, quietly stocking shelves of oil cans, was a teenager, maybe a year older than me. Toby Gentry. Arthur’s son, from what I knew. Toby didn’t look up, his movements stiff and deliberate, as if trying to disappear into the background.
His eyes, however, darted towards his father’s back, then quickly to us. A flicker of something – shame? – crossed his face before he looked down at a box of filters.
Arthur finally turned, rubbing his temples. He saw us then, and his expression hardened immediately. The broken man vanished, replaced by the familiar scowl.
“What do you want?” he barked, his voice tight. “No loitering. You got business, state it.”
“We just came to return these rented straps,” Sam said, holding up a coil of heavy-duty tie-downs. “From last month. Danny rented them.”
Arthur snatched them, not even looking at the straps. His eyes were fixed on me, a mixture of suspicion and a flash of something I couldn’t quite place. Guilt, maybe.
“Payment for rent is due on the first,” he growled. “You’re late.”
“No, Arthur,” I said, my voice steady. “They were for the generator. The one Danny lent you.”
Arthur’s face went crimson. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He glared at me, then at Sam, then his eyes flickered to Toby in the back, who was now frozen, pretending to dust a shelf.
“Get out,” Arthur snapped, his voice barely a whisper. “Get out of my shop.”
We didn’t need to be told twice. As we walked back to the car, the image of Arthur’s slumped shoulders and Toby’s averted gaze stuck with me. The $38,000 medical debt. His wife. It wasn’t an excuse, but it painted a clearer picture of his desperation. He wasn’t just greedy; he was drowning.
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