“Maybe he didn’t know,” I said. “Or maybe Clara told him the money was gone. She’s the one who handled the estate.”
Noah rubbed his temples with his thumbs, leaving two black grease smudges near his hairline. He looked at the red shop rag, then threw it onto the battery box.
“If she kept the legal papers, they’re in the house on Maple Street,” I said. “In the locked metal box under Josh’s old desk.”
“That’s her house, Eric,” Noah said. “That’s breaking and entering.”
“We’re her sons,” I said. “Or at least, that’s what she’s been telling everyone for twenty years.”
Noah looked down at the engine, his fingers resting on the cold metal of the radiator cap. The wind rattled the tin roof above us, a cold draft sweeping across our ankles.
“If we do this, there is no going back to being her sons,” Noah said.
