She stopped.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You repaired it.”
“I tightened a terminal.”
“With a tool.”
“Yes.”
“In your place of business.”
Luke looked toward the garage.
“Technically.”
She took out several folded bills.
Luke could see hundreds.
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“No?”
“No.”
She extended the money.
“At least take something.”
Luke gently pushed her hand back.
“If I charge you two hundred dollars for tightening one bolt, I become the reason people hate mechanics.”
She looked down at the money.
Then back at him.
“You’re either unusually honest or terrible at business.”
“Both have been suggested.”
She slowly returned the bills to her handbag.
“Thank you.”
“Drive straight to wherever you’re going.”
“I thought it was fixed.”
“It is.”
“But the battery’s low. If the alternator’s weak, it could die again.”
Her expression changed.
“How far can I go?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Whether your car hates you as much as the engineer who designed it hates me.”
She laughed.
This time fully.
Luke looked away first.
He had forgotten how noticeable an attractive woman’s laughter could be when you had spent three years training yourself not to notice attractive women.
He picked up the shop rag.
“Where are you headed?”
“Columbus.”
“That’s too far until I test the alternator.”
She checked her watch.
Luke saw irritation.
Not at him.
At time.
“I have a meeting.”
“What kind?”
She looked at him.
Luke shrugged.
“Never mind. None of my business.”
“No.”
She hesitated.
“It’s a board meeting.”
Luke nodded as though that explained nothing.
It explained enough.
“Board of?”
She looked toward the SUV.
Then back.
“Donovan Health Systems.”
Luke’s hand stopped.
Only for a second.
The rag hung between his fingers.
The woman did not notice.
Or perhaps she did.
“My name is Clare Donovan.”
Luke stared.
Something cold moved slowly through his chest.
Clare Donovan.
The name.
He had seen it before.
Not in newspapers.
Not on television.
Not because the woman standing in front of him was one of the most recognizable business executives in Ohio.
He had seen it in Rachel’s handwriting.
On an envelope.
A sealed envelope.
Inside the bottom drawer of an old metal toolbox in his garage.
Luke suddenly heard nothing.
Not the grocery carts.
Not Main Street.
Not the idling delivery van behind the store.
Rachel’s voice returned instead.
If I don’t get the chance, don’t throw it away.
Luke had been exhausted that night.
She had been sick.
So sick that pain medication turned some sentences into fragments.
He remembered holding the envelope.
Remembered seeing the name.
Clare Donovan.
He had asked:
“Who is she?”
Rachel had closed her eyes.
“Someone I spent too long looking for.”
Luke stared at the woman now.
Clare frowned.
“Are you all right?”
Luke blinked.
“Yes.”
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
That was almost funny.
He turned toward the garage.
“Wait here.”
“What?”