“Coffee?”
“I have coffee.”
“Dinner?”
Caleb almost smiled.
“You’re trying hard.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like owing people.”
The sentence struck him.
He understood.
“Then don’t call it debt.”
Vivienne looked.
“Call it somebody stopping.”
He turned toward his truck.
“Wait.”
Caleb looked back.
“What’s your full name?”
“Caleb Reyes.”
She nodded slowly, as if memorizing.
“And this is your business?”
She glanced toward magnetic sign half-covered in snow.
“More or less.”
“You own a shop?”
“No.”
“Just the truck?”
“Truck owns me some days.”
Another small smile.
Vivienne looked at his old Ford.
Then at him.
“Caleb…”
“Yes?”
“If you ever needed help, would you let somebody stop?”
The question surprised him.
He opened the driver door.
“Working on that.”
Then he climbed in.
Vivienne remained beside the Range Rover as his truck disappeared around the bend.
Caleb did not check his mirror.
If he had, he would have seen her still standing there.
Bills in one hand.
Damaged lug nut in the other.
Snow collecting on her shoulders.
And a look on her face that had very little to do with a flat tire.
He also would have seen the black SUV that arrived eight minutes later.
Not a civilian SUV.
Armored.
Two men in suits stepped out.
One hurried toward Vivienne.
“Ms. Vale.”
She turned.
The taller man looked at the repaired wheel.
“You’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“Who changed it?”
Vivienne stared down the road.
“A man named Caleb Reyes.”
The security chief pulled out his phone.
“Do you want us to find him?”
Vivienne looked at the old lug nut in her hand.
Then at the invoice from Calloway Motor & Tire in her email.
“Yes.”
But before the security chief could move, she added:
“Not for me.”
The man paused.
Vivienne’s expression hardened.
“Call my mother.”
Caleb reached home at twelve-thirty.
The house sat on the edge of Millbrook Falls, small and faded, with a porch that tilted slightly left and a detached shed he had converted into a workshop.
Sofia had already been released from school because of snow.
She sat at the kitchen table wearing headphones, drawing something mechanical on graph paper.
At ten years old, she had Marisol’s curls and Caleb’s habit of becoming completely still when concentrating.
Caleb walked in.
She looked up.
“You’re covered in snow.”
“Observation skills improving.”
“You said you’d be home at eleven.”
“I got a call.”
“Did somebody break something?”
“Always.”
Sofia removed headphones.
“Who?”
“Woman on mountain road.”
“What car?”
“Range Rover.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“Rich.”
“Car was.”
“Woman?”
Caleb hung his jacket.
“Probably.”
“Did she pay?”
“No.”
Sofia stared.
“Dad.”
“What?”