She nodded toward the Vesper.
“Your rates will become insane.”
Avery stared.
The woman continued.
“You can obviously afford it.”
Avery’s expression changed.
Not much.
Enough.
“What makes that obvious?”
The woman gestured toward the car.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“You expect me to believe you’re worried about twenty-five thousand dollars while driving a four-hundred-thousand-dollar sports car?”
Avery’s eyes sharpened.
The woman looked her over again.
“And honestly, if it isn’t yours, whoever owns it is going to be even less thrilled when insurance calls.”
There it was.
Not direct enough for a sound bite.
Clear enough for Avery.
She put her phone back in her handbag.
“What’s your name?”
The woman hesitated.
“Vanessa Carlisle.”
“Avery Monroe.”
Vanessa’s eyes flickered.
Recognition?
No.
Apparently not.
Good.
Avery had no interest in turning this into a résumé competition.
“Vanessa, my vehicle was stationary while I was inside.”
“You hit me before you went in.”
“No.”
“You probably didn’t feel it.”
Avery looked at the low Vesper.
A carbon-fiber monocoque, suspension stiff enough to communicate every expansion joint directly to her spine.
“I would have felt another vehicle.”
Vanessa rolled her eyes.
“Of course.”
Avery frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means this whole performance is unnecessary.”
“Whose performance?”
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
Vanessa stepped closer.
“You pull up in a car like this dressed for Instagram, and now you want to pretend you’re some kind of accident investigator.”
Avery felt something cold enter her chest.
Not anger exactly.
Recognition.
She had been twenty when a dealership manager asked whose keys she had taken.
Twenty-four when a bank employee asked whether a company account containing her own name belonged to her employer.
Twenty-seven when a conference security guard assumed her badge must be fake because the keynote entrance was “for executives.”
Every time, people later apologized after discovering the credential they recognized.
Founder.
Owner.
Engineer.
Speaker.
The apology never repaired the first assumption.
Avery was tired of credentials rescuing her.
She looked at Vanessa.
“I’m not performing anything.”
Vanessa smiled.
“Then pay for what you did.”
“No.”
The answer was calm.
Vanessa’s face hardened.
“What?”
“No.”
“I’m giving you a chance to keep this private.”
“Why would I want to keep it private?”
“You really want police looking at that car?”
Avery stared.
Vanessa continued.
“Registration.”
“Insurance.”
“Where it came from.”
Avery’s jaw tightened.
“Where it came from?”
Vanessa shrugged.
“I don’t know you.”
Avery spoke slowly.
“And because you don’t know me, you think police inspecting my ownership would scare me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You almost did.”
Vanessa looked away.
Avery glanced toward the station canopy.
Two cameras.
One angled over the pumps.
Another above the store entrance.
She felt some tension leave her shoulders.
“Fine.”
Vanessa looked back.
“Fine?”
“Let’s call the police.”
That was not the answer she expected.
“No.”
Avery raised an eyebrow.
Vanessa recovered.
“I mean, that seems excessive.”