That was what every biography said.
That was what Arden Mobility’s own museum said.
Camille turned toward Evan.
“The AR-7 burned at Blackstone Test Oval.”
Evan’s eyes stayed on hers.
“No.”
“My father died in it.”
“Your father died.”
“He did not die in this car.”
“You weren’t there.”
“My father was.”
Camille went still.
Evan continued.
“Frank Mercer was Arden Racing fabrication supervisor from 1996 to 2005.”
“I know who he was.”
She did.
The name had appeared in archival personnel files she reviewed when preparing the centennial project.
Frank Mercer.
Fabrication and chassis assembly.
Resigned February 2005.
No disciplinary action.
No exit interview.
She had not connected him to this garage.
Evan said:
“He built part of the frame.”
Camille looked at the car again.
“My father told the entire company that chassis was destroyed.”
“Your father couldn’t tell anyone anything after October eighteenth.”
Camille’s expression hardened.
“You know what I meant.”
“Harlan Voss told the company.”
The garage became very quiet.
Camille reached into her small handbag for her phone.
Evan moved for the first time.
“Don’t.”
She looked.
“What?”
“Don’t call him.”
Camille almost laughed.
“You do not tell me who I can call.”
“No.”
“But if you call Voss before you see what’s in the cockpit, you may never know why my father buried this.”
The sentence stopped her thumb above the screen.
Noah whispered:
“Dad.”
Evan looked at his son.
The boy’s voice was tense.
“Maybe we should call Ms. Cruz first.”
Camille glanced at him.
“Who is Ms. Cruz?”
“My dad’s lawyer.”
Evan looked almost embarrassed.
“She’s a legal-aid attorney who helped with the lease case.”
Camille said:
“And she knows about this?”
“No.”
“Who does?”
“My son.”
Noah lifted one hand slightly.
“And me.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
Camille stared at them.
For six years, a mechanic and a child had apparently known where a legendary Arden prototype was hidden.
“Why show me now?”
Evan looked around the shop.
“Because tomorrow a demolition crew starts cutting the slab.”
Camille looked at the car again.
“Open the cockpit.”
Evan did not move.
“Not until we document it.”
Camille stared.
“You just accused me of potentially destroying evidence tied to my own father.”
“I didn’t accuse you.”
“You told me not to call my chairman.”
“Yes.”
“Open it.”
“No.”
Camille stepped closer.
“I own the land beneath your feet.”
“Until midnight.”
“You occupy it under expired ground lease.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Evan.”