I looked at Nora.
She was already writing notes.
I had cleaned the glove box many times.
I had never found anything except old registration cards and a rusted screwdriver.
But my father had once mentioned that Leonard installed a custom liner behind the dashboard.
I had never removed it.
That evening, I went into the garage with a flashlight and a set of small screwdrivers.
I opened the passenger door and sat in the familiar vinyl seat.
The smell of old leather and machine oil brought back my father so sharply that I had to stop for a moment.
Then I removed the glove-box liner.
Behind it, taped to the metal support, was a flat brown envelope.
My hands went cold.
On the front, in faded black ink, someone had written three words.
“If they come.”
Chapter 12: The Envelope
I did not open the envelope immediately.
I photographed it where it sat and called Nora.
She told me to leave it undisturbed until she arrived.
I waited in the garage, listening to the cooling metal of the engine tick beneath the hood.
The Mustang had carried that envelope through two decades of road trips, repairs, and quiet Sunday drives.
My father had never mentioned it.
I wondered whether he had known it was there.
Nora arrived forty minutes later with a legal pad and a small document sleeve.
We photographed the envelope again before carefully removing it.
Inside were photocopies of vehicle identification records, handwritten notes, and a strip of photographic negatives.
The papers described several cars sold through a dealership that had operated under a different name.
Some records showed inconsistent serial-number plates.
Others contained estimates for restoration work that appeared to have been billed twice.
One page listed a dark green Mustang fastback with the same identification number as mine.
Beside it, Daniel had written, “Not part of the switch.”
That note confused me.
If my car was not involved in the suspected fraud, why had Daniel hidden the records inside it?
Nora studied the final page.
It was a handwritten list of dates and initials.
One entry read, “V.B. says K. can handle county papers.”
Another read, “Originals moved before inspection.”
The last entry contained a street address in Briar Glen.
It was Karen’s current house.
I stared at the address until the numbers blurred.
Nora closed the folder.
“We need to be very careful,” she said.
