Page 111 of Stuck with my Mechanic Daddies

Aurora let out a frustrated sigh, sitting back against the cabinet. “Figures. The one time I actually have answers within reach, the universe decides to screw with me.”

I leaned back on my heels, thinking. “We need some WD-40. Or oil. Something to loosen it up.”

Aurora rubbed her hands over her face. “And let me guess, you just happen to have some lying around?”

I smirked. “Do you know how many rusted bolts I’ve dealt with at the shop?” I pushed to my feet. “Stay put. I'll be back.”

Aurora let out a half-laugh. “Not like I’m going anywhere.”

At the auto shop, I rummaged through the cluttered back of my truck until I found it: an old can of oil, stained and heavy with the scent of machinery and long-forgotten workdays.

Plus, I found the lock box, which contained the copy of the key that I now knew was for the Page Turners' safe.

Ethan didn’t know where else to keep it, so he’d put it back where he found it. It probably wouldn’t help, but I figured I might as well bring it with me.

Whywasthere a copy, anyway?

Why was it here? What did the safe have to do withus?

Back at Page Turners, Aurora was exactly where I’d left her—sitting on the floor in front of the safe, drumming her fingers on her knee, a mix of frustration and impatience written all over her face.

I set the oil can and the spare key down beside her. “Got what we need.”

She eyed the second key, brow furrowing. “Is that the other key?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Found it at the shop. Ethan had put it back in the lockbox.”

Her frown deepened. “Why would it be there in the first place? I’m still confused about that.”

“Good question.”

One I didn’t have an answer for.

But if this safe tied into my family somehow, I needed to find out how deep that connection went.

I picked up the oil can, shaking it before carefully applying a few drops into the lock.

The scent of metal and old grease filled the air as I worked the key back and forth, letting the oil seep in. Aurora hovered beside me, silent but tense, watching my every move.

After a minute, I gave the key one last firm twist.

A lowclickechoed through the storeroom. Aurora sucked in a breath.

I reached for the handle, hesitating for half a second before pulling the heavy iron door open.

The hinges groaned, protesting years of neglect, but the safe gave way.

A rush of stale air hit us, carrying the scent of aged paper and something else. Something like time itself settling in dust-covered layers.

Inside, stacks of documents were arranged neatly in rows.

A few envelopes, some bound ledgers, and—at the very bottom—a thick, weathered folder marked with George Bennett’s name.

Aurora exhaled shakily. “Holy crap.”

I pulled the folder out, laying it carefully on the floor between us. My fingers brushed over the brittle edges before flipping it open.

The first few pages were financial records—bank statements, transaction logs, things that probably only made sense to an accountant. But beneath those…

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