Chapter 17

Jace:

The walls of my shack felt too close, Too quiet, Too full of questions I couldn't answer.

I'd searched every drawer, Every cabinet, Every inch of the floor. The photos were gone. Not misplaced, Not forgotten, Taken. Someone had stood in my house while I wasn't here. Someone knew I was digging. Someone wanted me to stop. I rubbed my hand across my chest, trying to settle the knot that had lived there ever since Calla's words outside the garage. "You're a killer." Now this.

I needed air. Real air. Not the stale kind trapped inside four walls. I grabbed my truck keys instead of the Camaro's. The old Chevy Silverado greeted me with its familiar creak as I climbed inside. The truck wasn't fast. Never had been. It wasn't supposed to be. Dad bought it when I was fifteen because, according to him, "A man should own one vehicle that'll still start after doing something stupid." He'd been right. The old truck rumbled to life.

I rolled every window down. The warm evening breeze smelled of salt and river mud. The sun hung low now, turning the sky shades of orange and peach as it settled toward the inlet. I headed toward the old fishing pier a few miles outside Riverside. No destination. Just driving. Sometimes that's all you needed. The road hugged the river before winding beneath massive live oaks draped in Spanish moss. The kind of road you took because it was pretty. Not because it was faster.

About halfway there… I spotted hazard lights blinking ahead. An older GMC Suburban K10 sat on the shoulder with its hood propped open. Steam drifted lazily into the humid air. A man stood beside it scratching his head while a woman fanned two young kids sitting on the tailgate. I slowed. Then pulled in behind them. The man looked over as I climbed out.

"You folks alright?"

He offered an embarrassed smile. "Depends who you ask."

I laughed. "Fair enough."

He stepped aside. "Started overheating about a mile back."

I leaned over the engine bay. The smell hit immediately. Coolant. Fresh coolant. I followed the trail. Didn't take long. "Radiator hose."

He looked over my shoulder. "That bad?"

I pointed. A clean split ran nearly three inches along the upper hose. "She's done."

He sighed. "I figured."

"We're supposed to be meeting my wife's parents down at their house to fry our catch."

The little girl sitting on the tailgate kicked her feet sadly. "We're gonna miss dinner."

I smiled. "Let's not panic yet."

I walked back to my truck. The old metal toolbox stretched across the bed. Every mechanic's version of a junk drawer. Sockets. Ratchets. Zip ties. Electrical tape. Random bolts. Half a dozen things I'd forgotten I owned. I started digging.

"Hose… Hose… Hose..." Then— "No way." I held up a brand-new upper radiator hose still wrapped in faded plastic.

The guy blinked. "That fit?"

I looked between his Suburban and my truck. "They used the same hose."

He laughed in disbelief. "You serious?"

"Looks that way." Sometimes old Chevys were beautiful like that. Twenty minutes later, the new hose was clamped down, coolant topped off, and the old Suburban idled happily without another puff of steam. \

The father looked like I'd just handed him a winning lottery ticket. "I don't know how to thank you."

"It was just a hose."

"It wasn't."

He reached for his wallet. "At least let me pay you."

I shook my head. "No sir."

"C'mon."

"I mean it."

"You saved our whole day."

"I've had people help me before." I wiped my hands on an old shop rag. "This one's on them."

He hesitated. Then nodded slowly. "Guess I'll have to help somebody else."

"That's usually how it works."

The little family began packing things back into the truck. Fishing poles. Coolers. A tackle box older than I was.

I was climbing back into my Silverado when I heard little footsteps behind me. "Mister!"

I turned. The youngest boy—couldn't have been older than seven—came jogging toward me. Freckles covered his nose. His oversized baseball cap bounced with every step. He held an old Folgers coffee can in both hands like it contained treasure. He stopped in front of me, slightly out of breath. "My Paw Paw says you gotta get paid."

I smiled. "I already did."

He shook his head so hard his hat nearly fell off. "Nuh-uh."

He held the can up proudly. Inside… Dozens of fat, colorful Catawba worms crawled over one another. I couldn't help laughing. "No kidding."

The boy beamed. "I picked 'em myself."

He lowered his voice dramatically. "We only used half." He pointed proudly into the can. "Paw Paw says they're the best fishing bait in the whole world."

His grandfather called from the driver's seat. "They are!"

I looked back at the little boy. "You sure?"

He nodded with absolute confidence. "I got plenty back at home, a whole tree full of ‘um."

I took the coffee can carefully. "Well..." I looked inside again. "I think I'm definitely getting the better end of this deal."

His grin somehow got even bigger. "I knew it!"

I laughed. "Tell your Paw Paw thanks."

"I will!" He sprinted back toward the Suburban.

The family climbed in. The old V8 rumbled to life. As they pulled away, the little boy leaned halfway out the back window, waving both arms like his life depended on it. "Bye, Mister!"

I raised the coffee can in salute. "See ya, buddy."

The Suburban disappeared around the bend. The road grew quiet again. I looked down at the battered coffee can in my hands. Catawba worms wriggled lazily beneath the lid. Camden would've laughed himself sick. "Only you could leave to clear your head and come home with fishing bait."

I smiled toward the river. "Yeah… I know." I set the can gently on the passenger seat before climbing back into the truck. As the engine rumbled to life, the knot in my chest loosened. Just a little. Because for fifteen minutes… Nobody looked at me like I was a murderer. Nobody whispered.Nobody judged. I wasn't the guy from the crash. I wasn't the racer who disappeared. I was just a mechanic with a toolbox. A guy who happened to have the right part at the right time. Maybe the whole city hadn't forgotten who I really was. Maybe… They just needed a reason to remember.