"The appraisal was completed before the move."
She looked toward me.
"But the insurance?"
I took a slow breath.
"We'll find out what the policy covers. And the people responsible will have to answer for what happened."
She stared at the floor.
Then whispered.
"I don't care about the money."
I nodded.
"I know."
She looked toward the old screwdriver.
For several seconds, she remained silent.
Then said.
"I just wish we could have one more Saturday with him."
That was the sentence that broke me.
I leaned forward.
Covered my face.
And cried harder than I had since his funeral.
The next morning, I called the appraiser.
He answered cheerfully.
Then heard my voice.
For a moment, he became quiet.
I explained what happened.
The HOA.
The recovery truck.
And the crushing operation.
He didn't speak for almost a full minute.
Then he asked whether I was certain the vehicle had been destroyed.
I told him the roof, chassis, and body had been severely compressed.
He exhaled.
For several seconds, he seemed unable to find the words.
Finally, he said.
"I'm so sorry."
I looked toward the empty workshop.
Then asked what could be done.
He explained that the vehicle's pre-loss condition and authenticity were well documented, but the actual financial consequences would require expert examination, insurance review, and possibly litigation.
He cautioned against assuming an appraisal automatically guaranteed a four-million-dollar payment.
Unique collector vehicles were difficult to value.
Their worth depended on the evidence.
And the value of a historical prototype could be disputed by parties who didn't understand its significance.
Fortunately, my father had preserved detailed records.
The appraiser had documented the car before its destruction.
And the museum had already begun evaluating it for an exhibition.
Those facts mattered.
He offered to assist with a formal post-loss examination and provide the supporting documentation.
I thanked him.
Before ending the call, he asked whether the original engineering archive was safe.
I looked toward the locked cabinet beside my desk.
"Yes."
He seemed relieved.
"Good."
Then he said something I hadn't considered.
"The car is destroyed, but the history isn't."
I closed my eyes.
For a moment, I could hear my father's voice.
Don't let anybody tell you it's just an old car.
I looked toward the cabinet.
And for the first time since the destruction, I realized there was still something important left to protect.
My insurance company opened a major-loss investigation.
The adjuster assigned to the case had experience with high-value collector vehicles and unusual property losses.