She placed the pieces on the table.
“I don't.”
Grant stared.
“What would you like us to do?”
“Nothing.”
“Ms. Hart—”
“Nothing.”
She stood.
“I’m done.”
He followed her toward the door.
“The vehicle is not operational.”
“I understand.”
“We need instructions for storage.”
“Sell it.”
Grant stopped.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“There are salvage channels available, but given the mechanical condition—”
“Perfect.”
“I don't recommend making a decision while upset.”
Evelyn looked at him.
“That is the first useful thing you've said today.”
Then she walked out.
By six that evening, an affiliated salvage buyer offered one thousand dollars.
The amount was insulting.
That was precisely why Evelyn accepted.
She wanted the car gone.
Not because she needed money.
Because she hated being made to feel foolish by an object she had once loved.
Claire called twice.
“Evelyn, sleep on it.”
“No.”
“You'll regret this.”
“Probably.”
“One thousand dollars?”
“I know.”
“You spent—”
“Claire.”
“Fine.”
Evelyn signed electronically.
Vehicle sold as non-operational salvage.
She returned home without looking back.
That should have ended the story.
Instead, at 8:14 the next morning, Claire entered Evelyn’s office without knocking.
That alone was unusual.
She held her phone.
“You’re going to want to see this.”
Evelyn kept typing.
“If it involves the car, I’m not.”
“It involves the car.”
“Then definitely not.”
“The registration status changed.”
Evelyn looked up.
“What?”
Claire crossed the office.
Hartwell Infrastructure maintained ninety-three company vehicles and used an external fleet platform. Evelyn’s supercar was personal, but Claire had added it to the platform months earlier because the system tracked insurance renewals.
Claire placed the phone on the desk.
Vehicle identification number.
Status:
OPERATIONAL.
Inspection completed.
Service event closed.
Evelyn stared.
“That's impossible.”
“I thought so.”
“When?”
Claire enlarged the record.
“Yesterday.”
“After I sold it?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Miller’s Automotive.”
“Who are they?”
“I looked.”
Claire swiped.
A photograph appeared.
Small garage.
Brick exterior.
Faded blue sign.
Three service bays.
No marble.
No glass palace.
No seven directors.
“Where?”
“Long Island City.”
“What repair?”
Claire hesitated.
“Electrical sensor replacement.”
Evelyn stared.
“Cost?”
“The report lists forty-one dollars for the part.”
Silence filled the office.
Claire continued.
“Labor was just under a thousand because the salvage buyer apparently offered the shop a flat diagnostic fee.”
“How long?”