“Does that sound likely?”
“It can happen through cascading failure.”
“Or one bad input could cause several systems to panic.”
Leonard’s expression changed almost imperceptibly.
Evelyn noticed.
Grant did too.
The service director quickly continued.
“The manufacturer does not recommend component-level intervention when fault patterns reach this severity.”
There it was.
Not diagnosis.
Procedure.
“What are you recommending?”
Grant opened an estimate.
“Complete engine assembly replacement.”
Evelyn read the first number.
Then the second.
Then the total.
She looked up.
“Ninety thousand dollars.”
“Approximately.”
“For an engine with fewer than five thousand miles?”
“The replacement unit itself is seventy-one thousand before labor, programming, shipping, fluids, and calibration.”
“Warranty?”
Another silence.
Grant’s answer became careful.
“The manufacturer may challenge coverage.”
“Why?”
“The system recorded an over-rev event.”
Evelyn stared.
“When?”
“Approximately two hundred operating miles ago.”
“I have never tracked this car.”
“I understand.”
“I have never used launch control.”
“Understood.”
“I barely drive above seventy.”
Grant nodded.
“The data is what it is.”
“No.”
Evelyn’s voice cooled.
“The data is what somebody says it means.”
She pushed the tablet away.
“What happens if I refuse?”
Grant hesitated.
“We can perform additional testing.”
“At what cost?”
“Diagnostic labor would continue.”
“How much?”
“Approximately four hundred seventy-five dollars per hour.”
Evelyn laughed.
It was not amusement.
It was disbelief escaping through the wrong door.
“You want five hundred dollars an hour to prove the ninety-thousand-dollar diagnosis you already gave me?”
Nobody answered.
She looked through the glass at the white car.
Her father’s voice returned unexpectedly.
Start with what you can prove.
She turned back.
“Show me the failed component.”
Grant frowned.
“The engine assembly is the failed component.”
“No.”
“Show me the crack.”
“The broken gear.”
“The bent valve.”
“The destroyed bearing.”
“Show me one piece of metal that explains ninety thousand dollars.”
Grant spread his hands.
“That isn't always how modern vehicles fail.”
Evelyn stared at him.
Maybe he was right.
She was not an automotive engineer.
She knew enough to ask questions, not enough to rebuild a supercar.
That distinction mattered.
She looked at seven experienced men.
Seven senior specialists.
All saying the same thing.
The rational part of her mind whispered that maybe she was simply angry because machines were expensive and reality did not care.
Grant softened his tone.
“Ms. Hart, I understand this is frustrating.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“These vehicles are emotional purchases.”
That sentence offended her more than the estimate.
“Emotional?”
“I simply mean owners are attached to them.”
“My concern isn't attachment.”
Evelyn leaned toward him.
“My concern is that seven people are asking me to spend ninety thousand dollars while none of you can show me what broke.”
Grant’s smile disappeared.
“We stand behind our diagnosis.”
“Good.”
Evelyn took the printed estimate.
Tore it in half.
Then folded the halves together and tore them again.
Nobody moved.