The Watch with the A-Shaped Scar

“Then the front door swung wide,” Mom murmured. “The snow had grounded your father’s flight, so he came back by cab. He stepped into the hall and found Arlo there—with you and the damaged watch.”

The memory crashed over me. Dad’s voice rising. His hand gripping Arlo’s coat. The frightening force with which he hauled his brother across the threshold and shoved him out into the rain.

“He sent Arlo away,” Mom said. “Then he returned, shut the door, and crouched in front of you. He made you promise never to mention the watch again.”

Her eyes stayed on mine. “It wasn’t the watch he was worried about, Mason. He was trying to bury the secret. He needed you to forget Arlo had ever come into this house.”

I couldn’t move. The terror I’d attached to that childhood day had grown from a lie I didn’t understand. I hadn’t spoiled something precious to Dad. I’d scratched a star onto a ghost’s watch.

Chloe’s voice cut through the silence. “Why did Arlo pawn it three weeks ago? And why put Dad’s name on the paperwork?”

Mom’s face crumpled. “Because he’s very sick. His kidneys are failing, and he can’t keep working.” The words seemed to leave her smaller, as if admitting them had taken all her strength.

“I’ve been slipping him money for groceries out of our household budget,” she went on. “I sent enough to help him cover rent in Blackwood. Your father never knew.”

She glanced toward the phone bill on the counter. “Then he set up a spending tracker for our shared accounts. He watches where the household money goes. I couldn’t take out cash without him noticing.”

“Arlo was facing eviction,” Mom said. “He was desperate. His driver’s license had expired years ago, so he made a rough copy of Arthur’s old ID and used it to pawn the watch.”

She pressed her fingers to the bill. “He brought it to Miller’s because he knew I went to shops on Fourth Street. He hoped I’d spot it, buy it back, and hold onto it until he could manage again.”

Chloe’s expression tightened. “You’ve been in touch with him?”

“Yes. I’ve been trying to find a way to get the money together.” Mom’s voice faltered. “I can’t pull three hundred dollars from the account without your father seeing.”

She looked between us, fear gathering in her eyes. “Arlo is terrified Arthur will discover he used his identity. He thinks Arthur will have him locked up again. He believes his brother could send him back to prison.”

A low, grinding vibration shivered through the kitchen floor.

The garage door was rising.

Mom went pale. She snatched the birth certificate, the photograph, and the phone bill from the counter, then buried them between the pages of a thick cookbook beside the stove.

“Don’t tell him,” she breathed, rubbing at her wet eyes with both hands. “If he learns you know, whatever peace this family has left will fall apart. Promise me you understand.”

The door from the garage opened. Dad walked in wearing work gloves and carrying a ripped plastic sack of potting soil. Damp earth and sweat clung to him. He dropped the bag near the doorway and tugged off his gloves.

The Hamilton on his left wrist ticked softly, its face still flawless. Dad’s gaze moved from Mom to Chloe, then to me. He studied our stiff bodies and the closed blinds.

“Why have you shut out the light?” he asked, calm as ever.

Mom answered without pausing. “The sunlight was bothering my head. Chloe and I were going over her college fees, trying to work out what we can afford.”

Dad watched her for several seconds. I imagined his orderly mind sorting through what he saw, looking for something that didn’t fit. At last, he nodded.

“Keep the numbers organized,” he said. “Put them in the spreadsheet. I’ll look it over tonight.”

Then he headed for the stairs. His authority seemed to remain in the kitchen even after he had left it.

About ten minutes later, Chloe brought me into her bedroom and locked the door. She went straight to the closet, stretched up to its top shelf, and brought down a glass jar stuffed with crumpled bills—her diner tips.

She emptied the jar onto her bed and began sorting the money. “What are you doing?” I asked. My heartbeat was loud enough to drown out my thoughts.

“Three-forty. Three-sixty. Three-eighty,” she murmured, arranging the bills into a stack. Then she looked at me, her jaw firm. “Dad goes golfing at noon. He’ll be out until four.”

“Chloe, Mom warned us—”

“Mom’s trapped by Dad’s rules,” Chloe said, pushing the cash into her jacket pocket. “Arlo’s in Blackwood, sick and frightened that Arthur is coming to arrest him. He has almost nothing. He pawned the one thing he had because he hoped someone here would help.”

She met my eyes, already set on what she meant to do. “I’m going to buy Arlo’s watch, and I’m taking you with me to Blackwood.”