Then I set the rag beside the toolbox, looked directly at Rick, and said, “Actually, I started counting after the police officer asked if I wanted to press charges.”
Rick’s smile dropped immediately.
His son looked back and forth between us. “What police officer?”
I walked over to the shelf beside my workbench and picked up my phone.
“Three months ago somebody pawned my table saw across town,” I said. “Serial number was still registered under my warranty.”
Rick stopped leaning against the garage door.
I kept going.
“Pawn shop camera caught who brought it in.”
His son’s face changed first.
Not angry.
Embarrassed.
Because suddenly he understood why his dad had been so careful acting casual all these years.
Rick laughed once, but it sounded thin. “Come on, it was a misunderstanding.”
I nodded slowly. “That’s what I thought too. Which is why I didn’t file anything after you paid me back.”
Neither of them said a word.
I pointed toward the old red toolbox already sitting in the back of Rick’s truck bed.
“My impact driver’s in there too, by the way. The one you swore you returned last spring.”
Rick’s face went completely red.
His son muttered, “Dad…”
Then the part that finally hit him landed.
“I also changed the locks on my garage yesterday,” I said. “After I found out my spare key disappeared.”
Rick looked genuinely shocked for the first time all afternoon.
Not offended.
Caught.
A couple neighbors had slowed down walking past by then. One of them was openly staring into the driveway.
Rick grabbed the beer tighter in his hand and tried smiling again, but nobody was laughing anymore.
Especially his son, who suddenly looked sick realizing half the “neighbor borrowing” stories he grew up hearing probably weren’t borrowing at all.