“I asked.”
“That’s how it starts.”
Mason smiled faintly.
“You sound like Daniel.”
“Good.”
“He would've borrowed against my shop without asking.”
“He would've tried.”
“And I would've broken his nose.”
“No, you wouldn't.”
Mason considered.
“No.”
Sarah looked at him.
“Please.”
He understood.
She was not asking him to stop helping.
She was asking him not to convert her grief into another debt she could never repay.
Mason nodded once.
“Fine.”
“Promise.”
“I don't make promises before coffee.”
“You've had three cups.”
“Then fine.”
She waited.
“I promise.”
Her shoulders lowered.
Eli had moved closer to the motorcycle.
Still outside the marked work area.
He stared at the engine.
“Daddy said she was stubborn.”
Mason smiled.
“Did he?”
Eli nodded.
“He said Grandpa made her stubborn.”
Sarah looked at her son.
“He called the motorcycle she?”
Eli nodded seriously.
“Sometimes.”
Ray approached again.
“What else did your dad say?”
Eli thought.
A four-year-old thinking deeply looked almost like sleep.
Then:
“Don't blame her.”
Everyone became still.
Mason crouched.
“What?”
Eli looked at him.
“Daddy said don't blame the machine.”
Sarah’s eyes filled.
She knew the phrase.
Ray did too.
Anyone who had spent time around Daniel Bennett knew some version of it.
Mason smiled softly.
“What comes after that?”
Eli frowned.
He knew.
Trying to remember exactly.
“Check…”
He looked toward the motorcycle.
“What somebody touched.”
Mason felt the words.
Daniel had said them a thousand times.
Before you blame the machine, check what somebody touched last.
It was not profound.
It was shop wisdom.
Most sudden failures after maintenance were related to maintenance.
Most mysterious problems that appeared after someone worked in an area were worth examining there first.
But nobody had worked on the motorcycle before it failed.
At least that was what everyone believed.
Mason stood.
Ray looked at him.
They were thinking the same thing.
Sarah noticed.
“What?”
Mason answered, “Nothing yet.”
The front garage door opened.
A black luxury pickup rolled into the lot.
Ray's face hardened.
Mason did not need to look.
He knew.
Victor Crane had arrived.
Victor entered Hale Motor Works as though he had been invited to inspect a property he intended to buy.
Forty-six.
Tall.
Broad without Mason’s roughness.
Dark hair slicked neatly back.
Trim beard.
Gray tailored work jacket over a black shirt.
Everything expensive enough to advertise itself without visible logos.
He carried a leather document folder.
Mason hated folders arriving with Victor.
They usually contained numbers designed to make somebody desperate feel sensible.
Victor smiled at Sarah first.
“Morning.”
Then Mason.
“Suit?”
“Funeral.”
Victor’s smile disappeared.
Mason smiled.
“Not yours.”
Ray coughed into one hand.
Sarah glared at Mason.
“Gentle,” she whispered.
Mason muttered, “Trying.”
Victor ignored him.
He looked toward the motorcycle.