“Twenty-two minutes from intake scan to successful restart.”
Evelyn stood.
“Call them.”
“I did.”
That stopped her.
“You did?”
“The owner answered.”
“What did he say?”
Claire looked almost nervous.
“He said the engine is fine.”
Evelyn felt something cold spread through her chest.
“What exactly did he say?”
“I asked whether there was catastrophic internal engine damage.”
“He said, ‘No.’”
“Transmission?”
“No.”
“Electrical failure?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Claire looked at her phone.
“Quote: ‘Bad crank-position sensor and a damaged connector.’”
Evelyn said nothing.
Claire continued.
“He also said something weird.”
“What?”
“He asked who diagnosed the vehicle before it reached him.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn't say.”
Evelyn picked up her handbag.
“Cancel ten o’clock.”
“You have the Turner financing meeting.”
“Move it.”
“Evelyn.”
“Claire.”
Her assistant sighed.
“I knew you were going.”
“Then why are we talking?”
Twenty-eight minutes later, Evelyn was inside a car headed toward Long Island City.
Miller’s Automotive sat between a tire warehouse and a plumbing-supply distributor.
A faded sign hung above three open bays.
One employee was sweeping.
Another stood beneath an old pickup.
A little girl drew a bright purple dragon in chalk beside the office door.
Evelyn stepped out wearing the red dress she had planned to wear to a charity luncheon later that afternoon. She considered changing before leaving Manhattan.
She had been too angry.
The little girl looked up.
“You look like a movie star.”
Evelyn stopped.
That was not the greeting she expected.
“Thank you.”
The girl pointed toward the garage.
“Dad said the car lady might come.”
“The car lady?”
“He didn't know your name.”
“Reasonable.”
The child studied her dress.
“Is that uncomfortable?”
Evelyn smiled despite herself.
“Extremely.”
“I knew it.”
A voice came from inside.
“Chloe.”
The girl turned.
“What?”
“Maybe don't interrogate customers.”
“She's not a customer.”
A man emerged wiping his hands on a shop towel.
Early forties.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Dark wavy hair that looked as though he had pushed greasy fingers through it twenty times already.
Gray work shirt.
Black mechanic gloves.
He studied Evelyn carefully.
“You’re the former owner.”
“Evelyn Hart.”
“Jason Miller.”
They shook hands.
His grip was firm.
Not performative.
“Show me.”
He nodded toward the bay.
The white supercar sat under fluorescent lights with its engine compartment open.
Evelyn stopped at the door.
It looked perfectly normal.
Not dead.
Not salvaged.
Not destroyed.
Jason walked around the rear.
“Want me to start it?”
She almost laughed.
“Apparently everyone except me has already heard it run.”
He opened the driver’s door.
Pressed the starter.
The engine ignited instantly.