Chapter 7: The Old Garage
The walk up Ridge Road felt longer than it looked on the worn state map Jax had pulled from his saddlebag back at the gate. Every fifty yards or so, we passed the rotting remains of old abandoned farm equipment half-swallowed by blackberry briars and tall weeds. I kept my head down, watching the scuffs on my sneakers kick up tiny puffs of dry gray dust with every step. Jax walked silently on my left, his heavy boots making a solid, rhythmic crunch against the gravel. He didn't smoke the cigarette he’d pulled out earlier; instead, he had tucked it behind his ear like a carpenter's pencil, leaving his hands free to push aside low-hanging cedar branches that threatened to swipe across my face.
"Your mother always hated this side of the county," Jax said out of nowhere, his voice cutting through the rustle of the wind in the pines. He didn't look at me, keeping his gaze fixed on the winding trail ahead. "Too many memories of people who promised the moon and left nothing behind but dust. I tried to convince her to move closer to the river back when we were nineteen. She said she liked the high ground. Said you could see the weather coming from ten miles away."
"She doesn't talk about the river much," I admitted, stepping over a thick exposed root that snaked across our path. "Mostly she talks about the laundry downtown. And how the linoleum in the kitchen is peeling up near the stove."
Jax let out a short, dry breath that sounded almost like a laugh, though there was no humor in it. He slowed his pace as the trees began to thin out, revealing the rusted tin roof of an old independent auto garage tucked back against the base of the ridge. The building looked like it had been abandoned for twenty years, its windows boarded up with weathered plywood and the yard overgrown with tall yellow grass. But parked right beside the sliding side door was a faded blue pickup truck with one primer-gray fender and a cracked windshield held together by clear packing tape.
"Recognize that heap?" Jax asked, stopping near the edge of the overgrown gravel lot.
I shook my head. "Mom borrows it from Mr. Henderson sometimes when the grocery store has a sale on canned soup. Usually she walks, though. Unless her knee is acting up from the damp weather."
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Jax’s jaw tightened visibly. He reached up, rubbed his beard with the palm of his hand, and stared at the old truck as if it were a physical insult. " Henderson always was a skinflint," he muttered under his breath. "Charging a working woman interest on a rusted-out Ford."
He stepped off the path and walked toward the garage, his boots crunching loudly on the dry weeds. I hurried to keep up, staying close to his right side. The air here smelled different—a sharp mix of old gasoline, wet cedar, and hot engine oil. Jax reached out and shoved hard against the side door of the garage. It resisted for a second with a harsh screech of metal against concrete before sliding open just enough for a grown man to squeeze through. He didn't go inside right away. He stood in the narrow gap, looking back down the empty gravel road toward the highway, checking our six as if he expected someone to be following us through the trees.
