Chapter 16

Calla:

The best part about working on cars? They didn't care if your life was falling apart. The engine didn't ask why your eyes looked tired. The transmission didn't wonder why you were distracted. A stripped bolt didn't care if your heart was broken. It either fits. Or it didn't. There was something comforting about that. 

By lunchtime, I'd already rebuilt the front suspension on an old Silverado, diagnosed a fuel delivery issue on a WRX, and helped Julio wrestle a transmission back into a '69 Chevelle. My arms ached. Grease covered every inch of my forearms. My white T-shirt had officially become gray. Perfect. Exactly how I liked it. The radio bounced between classic rock and country while overhead fans fought a losing battle against the Florida heat. Outside, cicadas screamed from the oak trees lining Riverside Drive. Inside… It smelled like brake cleaner, burnt rubber, and fresh coffee. Home.

Julio slid underneath another lift. "You eat?"

I didn't even look up from tightening a pulley. "I had coffee."

He sighed. "Coffee isn't food."

"It is if you believe hard enough."

He muttered something in Spanish. Probably insulting me. Deservedly.

McKenna poked her head out of the office. "I ordered pizza."

I looked up. "You okay?"

She shrugged. "You've been in a mood all day."

"I've always been in a mood."

"Today's mood has extra violence."

"Fair."

Reid wandered through the bay carrying a radiator over one shoulder. "No throwing wrenches today?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"You."

He grinned. "I'll stay over here."

Smart man.

The rest of the afternoon blurred together. Customers came and went. Oil changes. Brake jobs. Tune-ups. Nothing glamorous. Just honest work. Exactly what Camden had wanted. Around four, the bell above the office door chimed. Three guys walked inside. Early twenties. All wearing shirts from different race crews. One Riverside. Two from South Point. They weren't here for repairs.

One slapped the counter. "Parts here yet?"

McKenna typed on the computer. "Name?"

"Darren."

She nodded. "Yep."

She disappeared into the back room. The guys wandered into the garage while they waited. Naturally. Car people couldn't help themselves. They started looking around the builds on the lifts.

"Y'all still doing custom tunes?"

Julio answered without looking up. "If you've got money."

One laughed.

"That's not a problem."

Another whistled toward a stripped Camaro sitting in Bay Two. "Who's building that?"

"Customer."

"Damn."

I kept working. Trying not to listen. Failing.

"...Heard Jace Maddox's back."

There it was. Every conversation eventually found its way there. The tallest guy snorted.

"About time."

His buddy shook his head. "I still don't know why anybody lets him around the meets."

"Because nobody proved anything."

"They didn't have to."

"He was racing Camden."

"So?"

"So Camden died."

The shop grew quieter. Not because anyone stopped working. Because everyone was listening. Reid glanced up from across the room. Julio kept turning a wrench. McKenna returned carrying boxes but slowed near the counter. The conversation continued.

"My cousin swears Jace was unbeatable back then."

"He was."

"Yeah, because he always had the fastest car."

I looked up. The words hit something deep inside me.

"He bought wins."

I closed my eyes. No. He didn't. The memory came without permission. Jace and Camden lying beneath two junkyard cars in Mr. Vance's old garage. Covered in rust. Arguing over salvaged parts. Eating gas station hot dogs because they'd spent every dollar on spark plugs. Neither of them had money. Hell, half the parts on Jace's first Camaro came from three different wrecked cars. 

One of the guys laughed. "Money always wins."

Before I realized I was speaking— "No." The garage fell completely silent. Three pairs of eyes landed on me. I wiped my hands on a rag. "He never cheated."

One of the guys frowned. "What?"

I swallowed. Damn it. Why was I doing this? "Jace." The name felt strange coming out of my mouth. "He never lied. Never sandbagged. Never paid people off." I tossed the rag onto my toolbox. "He raced whatever he built."

The tallest guy shrugged. "So?"

"So..." I leaned against the workbench. "...he didn't have the nicest cars. He made them fast. That's different."

The younger guy frowned. "I heard he always had crazy builds."

I almost laughed. "Crazy?" I pointed toward the parts catalogs sitting on the counter. "You know what he and Camden used to do?" They waited. "They'd spend six hours at the junkyard. Then another ten making broken parts work. They couldn't afford half the stuff you guys order online." Julio looked up briefly. Just enough to hide a small smile. I continued before I could stop myself. "He wasn't respected because he had money. He was respected because he'd beat guys who spent fifty grand more than he did." Silence. "He had talent." Real talent. The kind you couldn't order. Couldn't bolt onto a car. Couldn't finance. I shook my head. "You can't buy instincts. You can't buy feel. You can't buy knowing exactly how a car's going to react before it does." Those things came from years spent wrenching in hot garages. Driving roads until sunrise. Breaking things. Fixing them. Doing it all over again.

The taller guy crossed his arms. "So you're defending him now?"

The question hung in the air. I looked at him. Then down at my grease-covered hands. "No." The word came quietly. "I'm defending the truth." There was a difference. Whether I liked it or not. "He didn't need expensive parts." I picked up another wrench. "He was just that good." 

No one said anything. The guys exchanged glances. McKenna slowly slid the boxes across the counter. "Your order." The moment broke. They grabbed their parts. Mumbled thanks. Then headed back outside. As the door shut behind them, the garage slowly came back to life. Air tools buzzed. Music resumed. Someone laughed outside. I bent back over the engine. Trying to pretend nothing had happened.

Reid appeared beside me a minute later. Didn't say anything at first. Just leaned against the toolbox. Finally— "You know..."

I sighed. "What?"

"I've known you since we were kids."

"Congratulations."

"And that's the first nice thing I've heard you say about Jace in two years."

I tightened another bolt. "I wasn't being nice."

"No?"

"No."

"You sounded pretty convincing."

I rolled my eyes. "I was correcting bad information."

"Mhm."

"I was."

"Mhm."

I looked up. "You're annoying."

"I've been told." He smiled that stupid, knowing smile. "The thing about truth..." I frowned. 

"What about it?"

"It has a funny way of slipping out." He pushed himself off the toolbox. "Even when we're trying real hard to hold it in."

Before I could answer, he walked away, whistling to himself. I stared after him. Then back at the engine. My wrench paused halfway to another bolt. I hated that he'd noticed. More than that… I hated that he was right. Because somewhere between anger and grief… I'd accidentally admitted something I hadn't wanted to. Jace Maddox had never won because of money. He'd won because he was one of the best drivers Calusa Cove had ever seen. And deep down…  I'd always known that. And great drivers couldn’t have made the mistake of killing their best friend.