She had no idea whether that actually meant anything.
Her father would have known.
The thought came automatically.
Claire’s father had known almost everything about cars.
At least that was how childhood memory preserved him.
Robert Bennett could identify an engine by sound from halfway down the driveway. He kept old spark plugs in coffee cans, believed jumper cables belonged in every trunk, and treated dealer service departments with deep suspicion.
He died three years earlier.
Pancreatic cancer.
Six months from diagnosis to funeral.
Claire had inherited many things from him.
A small investment account.
His lake cabin.
A collection of tools she had no idea how to use.
And the irritating habit of hearing his voice whenever something mechanical went wrong.
Start simple.
That was what he always said.
She stared into an engine bay so densely packed with plastic covers and electronics that “simple” seemed to have been outlawed.
“Excellent advice, Dad.”
Snow collected on her coat.
She reached toward something that looked vaguely electrical.
Stopped.
“No.”
Robert’s second rule had been even clearer.
If you don’t know what it is, don’t make it worse.
She closed the hood halfway, then opened it again because she thought someone approaching might see it more easily.
Another ten minutes passed.
Her phone battery dropped to fourteen percent.
Then headlights appeared around the bend.
Claire straightened.
An old dark pickup approached slowly through the snow.
Her relief arrived first.
Suspicion immediately followed.
The truck passed.
Brake lights glowed.
It continued perhaps forty yards.
Stopped.
Claire’s fingers closed around the pepper spray inside her handbag.
The truck reversed carefully.
It stopped behind her Cadillac.
Driver’s door opened.
A man stepped out.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dark jacket.
Jeans.
Work boots.
No hat.
Snow landed in his short brown hair.
He looked toward the open hood, then toward Claire.
“You okay?”
His voice was calm.
Not overly friendly.
Claire remained beside the front fender.
“My car stopped.”
He looked at the obvious open hood.
“I gathered.”
Despite herself, she almost smiled.
He kept several feet of distance.
“Did it overheat?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Any smoke?”
“No.”
“Strange noise?”
“No.”
“Warnings?”
“Approximately all of them.”
He nodded.
“That’s useful.”
“It is?”
“Sometimes.”
He pointed toward the engine.
“Mind if I look?”
Claire hesitated.
The man noticed.
He immediately stopped moving.
“My name’s Daniel.”
That tightened something in her chest.
She looked at him carefully.
Daniel.
No.
There were thousands of Daniels.
She said nothing about the blind date.
He continued.
“I run Mercer Auto and Equipment about twenty miles east of here. Truck has my business name on the door if you want to verify.”
Claire glanced toward the pickup.
Faded lettering:
MERCER REPAIR & EQUIPMENT.
Below that, a phone number.
He took his phone out.
“Signal’s bad, but you can photograph my plate or text it to somebody.”
That made her trust him slightly more.
People intending harm rarely volunteered documentation.
Claire raised her own phone.
“Battery is nearly dead.”
“Then don’t waste it.”
He gestured toward the car again.
“May I?”