He opened the lid, dropped both cell phones inside, and let the heavy latch fall shut.

He drew a small brass padlock from his pocket, slipped it through the steel hasp, and snapped it closed with a sharp click.

“Why are you locking them in there?” I asked.

He did not look at me as he slid the key into his pocket.

“So we can focus on each other,” he said.

“The level is not on the bench,” I said, looking at the empty space above the pegboard.

“It must be in the truck,” he said, turning back toward the house.

I stood in the cold garage for a moment, my hand resting on the cool green metal of the locked box.

There was no reason to lock two phones in a toolbox.

When I returned to the kitchen, Noah had already set the two blue plates on the oak table.

Daniel stood by the counter, pouring two glasses of tap water.

He carried them to the table and set one beside my plate and one beside Noah’s.

He did not pour a glass for himself.

“Sit down,” Daniel said, nodding toward the head of the table where he usually sat.

Instead of sitting, he remained standing near the refrigerator, his arms folded across his chest.

I ladled the thick red sauce over the pasta on Noah’s plate, then on my own.

The steam carried a heavy, sweet smell of oregano, but there was something else underneath it, something metallic and sharp.

“Is there something different in the sauce?” I asked.

“Just garlic,” Daniel said.

Noah took a small bite, his eyes fixed on his plate.

“It tastes a little bitter,” Noah said, looking at me.

“Eat your dinner, Noah,” Daniel said from the shadows near the pantry.

I took a forkful of the pasta and chewed slowly.