A deep hydraulic rumble moved through the concrete.
The rectangular steel panel split along a seam she had not noticed.
Dust shook from the edges.
Camille stared.
The two halves of the floor began separating.
Not upward.
Sideways.
Metal tracks hidden beneath the concrete carried them apart until a black opening appeared between them.
Camille took another step backward.
“What the hell is this?”
Evan said nothing.
The hydraulic pump strained.
Something began rising out of the darkness.
At first Camille saw only dust.
Then the top of a narrow windshield.
A steering wheel.
A single racing seat.
Curved aluminum bodywork.
Exposed suspension arms.
Four old racing tires.
A long, low nose.
No headlights.
No road equipment.
A purpose-built open-wheel race car.
The hydraulic platform carried it slowly into the garage.
Camille stopped breathing.
The car was filthy.
Twenty years of dust lay across the body.
Its original silver paint had dulled almost gray.
One side panel carried a faded number.
Seven.
Near the cockpit sat a small metal badge.
Camille walked toward it without realizing she had moved.
Evan released the hydraulic lever.
The platform stopped level with the garage floor.
Noah stood beside the workbench, eyes fixed on Camille.
He already knew.
Of course he did.
Camille approached the car.
There was something wrong with her hands.
They were shaking.
She crouched beside the left side panel.
Her dress touched the dirty concrete.
She did not care.
Using two fingers, she wiped dust from the small badge beneath the cockpit.
A winged A.
A narrow lightning-bolt slash.
Under it:
AR-7
Camille’s breath left her.
She wiped again.
Below the model mark were hand-stamped initials.
G.R.A.
Graham Robert Arden.
Her father.
Camille stood too quickly.
The garage tilted.
“No.”
Evan remained several feet away.
Camille looked at him.
“No.”
He said nothing.
“That isn’t possible.”
No answer.
“You fabricated this.”
Evan’s eyebrows moved slightly.
“You think I built a twenty-two-year-old prototype under my floor?”
“I think people have done worse for money.”
Noah looked offended.
Evan did not.
Camille moved around the vehicle.
Her heels clicked irregularly.
She knew this car.
Not physically.
She had never been allowed near it.
But photographs of the AR-7 had existed for years.
Blurry testing images.
Engineering sketches.
One famous picture of her father standing beside the uncovered front suspension, laughing at something outside the frame.
The AR-7 had become part of Arden mythology.
The lost prototype.
The car Graham Arden had supposedly died testing on October 18, 2004.
The remains had burned so completely after the crash that only portions of the frame were recovered.
That was what she had been told.