The playfulness vanished from his face.
“This doesn't belong in your car.”
Katherine looked at it.
“It's a distributor.”
“Part of one.”
“And?”
“And the original system from this engine uses a different advance assembly.”
“You're certain?”
“Yes.”
“How certain?”
James looked offended.
“Do you want the polite answer or the useful one?”
“Useful.”
“If I'm wrong, I'll rebuild this engine for free.”
Katherine stared.
“That could cost six figures.”
“I know.”
“You don't know what I paid the last shop.”
“I don't care.”
James placed the part on a clean cloth.
“Somebody installed components that physically fit but don't belong together.”
Katherine crossed her arms.
“That sounds like incompetence.”
“Once?”
He pointed deeper into the engine.
“Maybe.”
“Three different mismatches?”
“No.”
She looked toward him.
“Three?”
James nodded.
“Wrong ignition advance piece.”
“A fuel-delivery restriction that makes no sense for this setup.”
“And somebody adjusted timing far enough out of specification that the engine would never run properly even if everything else were perfect.”
Katherine's face hardened.
“Could that happen accidentally?”
“Not like this.”
The garage suddenly felt quieter.
James leaned against the fender.
“Whoever worked on this knew vintage engines.”
“Just not enough to fix one?”
James shook his head.
“Enough to make one look impossible to fix.”
Katherine stared at the Ferrari.
Her father had bought the car before she was born.
A red 1967 Ferrari 275 GTB, restored twice but never stripped of its character. Robert Vaughn had driven it every Sunday morning when weather allowed, regardless of how large his company became.
Katherine’s earliest memory of him involved that car.
She was six.
Bare feet.
Too small for the passenger seat.
Her father had placed a folded blanket beneath her so she could see over the dashboard.
He told her the Ferrari was not the fastest car in the world.
Not the rarest.
Not even the best.
“What matters,” Robert had said, “is whether something still makes you turn around after you walk away.”
She had not understood.
At thirty-four, she did.
After Robert died eight months earlier, Katherine inherited houses, investments, voting shares, artwork, and enough property to occupy three law firms.
The Ferrari was the only thing she had cared about.
It ran perfectly during the funeral week.
Then she sent it for routine service.
It came back coughing.
Within a month it would not start.
The first specialist blamed age.
The second blamed previous restoration work.
The third recommended a full engine rebuild.
The fourth, Marlow Heritage Motors, said the car could be restored but warned that doing so would cost more than preserving it as a static collection piece.
Then Mason Cross, Marlow’s senior vintage specialist, made an offer.
He knew a buyer.
Cash.
Immediate.
No questions.
Katherine refused.
Mason called twice afterward.
Each time, he raised the amount.
James watched her expression.
“You know something.”
She looked at him.
“The last mechanic offered to buy it.”
“For himself?”
“He said a collector.”
James nodded slowly.
“Name?”
“Mason Cross.”
James froze.
Katherine saw it.
“What?”
He placed the tool in his hand down.
“Cross?”
“Yes.”
“Mason Cross?”
“You know him?”
“No.”
James wiped his hand on a shop towel.
“But I know another Cross.”
Katherine’s eyes narrowed.
“Who?”
James looked directly at her.
“Adrian Cross.”
The name landed differently.
Adrian Cross was Chief Financial Officer of Vaughn Mobility Group.
Her father’s closest financial adviser for thirteen years.
The man who currently sat three offices from Katherine in Atlanta.
She felt a small pressure behind her ribs.
“What about Adrian?”
James walked to an old desktop computer near the tool cabinet.