When I opened my eyes the next morning, sunlight was streaming through the windows.
That never happened. Somehow I’d slept the whole night through. While grinning at my ceiling, I had a private chuckle. Sex had thrown a switch and put me right to sleep.
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The Sophie Cure would be temporary, though. If there was anything I understood about my body it was that the cravings always returned. At least for now, I felt better than I had in a long time. If I’d learned one thing in recovery, it was to appreciate the easy minutes. Because you might not get more of them for a while.
Even better—today was Thursday. I had an evening with the Shipleys to look forward to. Tonight I’d bring something from the bakery where I’d bought Sophie’s cake. I had to go there anyway to get my credit card back.
After a quick shower I threw on my work clothes and headed downstairs. In the alley I paused, because that fucking wreck of a car was still there. I’d taught myself to walk past it without looking. But it was twice now that Sophie had come through this alley. She’d had to walk past the car that killed her brother. On the outside chance that she might come back some time, I knew I had to finally deal with the fucker.
I circled the Porsche the way you circle an enemy. With one phone call I could have the whole car towed away as junk. But as a vintage car nut, I just couldn’t do that. What a waste. So I started at the back of the vehicle, because that section had not been damaged. Lifting the tarp, I saw two taillights, still perfect.
After heading into the garage, I fired up my father’s ancient computer and looked at listings for vintage Porsche taillights on eBay. Looked like the lenses alone were worth fifty bucks each. I put up an auction listing for them, then shut down the computer.
Baby steps.
If they sold, I’d have to figure out what to do with the money. I no longer wanted anything to do with that car, but I could give the money to Sophie. She could dust off her music school fund.
Meanwhile, I was confronted with another long day of being underemployed. My tire-changing business had all but dried up. After a couple of snowfalls, most of the people who were planning to suit up for winter had already done it. And the ones who still believed that “all season” tires were good enough hadn’t dented their fenders yet.
My father had deigned to work yesterday, completing a dent repair. And since two days of work in a row would clearly be too much effort for him, I doubted that he would turn up this morning.
That was just as well, because I didn’t want to hear his opinion on my next project.
Yesterday I’d bought some exterior paint at Home Depot, along with a scraper, a decent brush and some rollers. The garage hadn’t seen a paint job in years. If I wanted people to bring us their bodywork, I knew I had to make the place look alive.
First, I took our power sander outside and fired it up. Even with safety goggles and a face mask on, removing the old, peeling paint was nasty work. But I covered a lot of territory in an hour and a half. And then Mrs. Walters—the old lady who ran the clanking dishwashing machine at the church—pulled in with her set of snow tires to swap out.
“This will take about forty-five minutes,” I said, burying my surprise.
She waved a gnarled hand. “I’m going to lunch with my girls. We’ll be two hours at least. Longer if the gossip is any good.”
“See you in a couple hours,” I said.
Whistling to myself, I put her car on the lift and got to work. Sometimes I tried to guess what sort of car a person drove, and I never would have guessed this one. It amused me to know that Mrs. Walters drove a Subaru Baja, which was an odd miniature pickup that I’d always admired. Subaru didn’t make ’em anymore, and that was a shame.
The Baja was the sort of car that teenagers buzzed through town with their snowboards in back.
I was tightening a lug nut when someone walked into the garage. “You’re early, Mrs. Walters.”
“Not early. Late.” The voice was male, and made of gravel.
I forced myself to stand up very slowly. No point in showing fear when you don’t yet know if there’s a reason. “Can I help you?” I asked a dark-eyed stranger in a denim jacket and a beanie. The only thing distinguishing him from a thousand other guys in Vermont was the angry-looking scar across his cheek.
“There’s something I’m missing, and I think you know where it is.”
Turning my head, I made a show of checking the space behind me for someone else. “You can’t mean me. I don’t even know you. And I’ve been in prison for three years.”
“Yeah? Well just before that your new dealer gave you some product. We’re looking for his stash.”
Shit. I held my hands loosely as a show of indifference. But I was boiling inside. “In the first place, I didn’t have a new dealer.”