Jeb had left a key chain hanging on a pegboard in the kitchen, and Audrey was relieved when the fourth key Xavier tried unlocked the dead bolt to the garage. It was so much better than smashing their way in. She had zero doubt that Jeb had the kind of soul that would haunt people if he could, and he’d hate any damage to his beloved property, even if it was done in service of finding out who had killed him and why.

Xavier ran his red flashlight around the room. On first glance, the shop looked disorganized. That didn’t seem very Jeb.

In the center of the bay was an old beast of a pickup truck—from the 1960s or ’70s—up on supports. It lacked tires and a front hood. It was a work in progress, or a parts vehicle. Something Jeb was restoring, she guessed, but it looked like the project had stalled long ago.

A long, L-shaped workbench spanned two walls. The surface was littered with tools and random items, bits of wire, baby food jars filled with nuts and bolts. Interspersed among the detritus of ongoing projects were open produce boxes—the cardboard kind cashiers at Costco used to pack groceries in lieu of using bags—some empty, some full with dirty shop towels, yet more tools, quarts of oil.

She puzzled over the incongruity of the messy shop and what she knew of Jeb, but then, this could be the place where he relaxed most and tinkered on multiple projects at a time.

Xavier’s light landed on the corner of the L, revealing a jumble of items. Metal pipes, clamps, nails, and screws, all haphazard on the surface. Several incandescent lightbulbs—whole and broken—lay next to an old car battery and jumper cables.

The light went to the shelf above, revealing a stockpile of one-hundred-watt lightbulbs. “Jeb must’ve bought out Port Angeles before they stopped selling those,” she said.

Xavier’s light ran across all the upper shelves. Next to the lightbulbs were stacks of boxes of wooden matches, several dozen small black plastic bottles, a lifetime supply of toilet paper, boxes of borax, bottles of ammonia, bleach, and other household cleaners. “It doesn’t surprise me that Jeb was something of a hoarder,” she added.

“Usually antigovernment hoarders have a weapon stockpile.”

“That also wouldn’t surprise me. He served in Vietnam and knew his way around guns. He and George talked about—”

Xavier jolted, held up a hand, then the red flashlight went out, plunging the room into inky darkness. He made a soft sound she presumed meant for her to stay quiet.

She couldn’t see a thing. Not even her hand in front of her face. Her heart pounded as she stood frozen. What was going on? Had Xavier heard something? Had they been found?