"Mikey," I say, nodding in greeting. "I'm here to pick up some belongings from the Jeep you guys towed in." The words taste bitter in my mouth, remembering why I'm here.

Mikey straightens up, visibly relieved to focus on something else.

"Yo, Nick. Yeah, yeah, I heard about that. Is she—uh, the girl, I mean—is she okay?"

"She's recovering," I say simply, keeping my tone even while something darker stirs in my gut.

Dillon mutters something about grabbing the box and heads toward the back, his shoulders tense. As he disappears, I lean casually against the counter, watching Mikey fidget like a man with too many secrets.

"What was a lady like that doing in a place like this?" I ask, my voice deliberately light but pointed.

Mikey glances toward the door, then back at me, hesitating. He knows me well enough to know I don't ask questions without a reason. Finally, he lets out a breath, leaning in like he's about to share something he shouldn't.

"She's been in here a few times this week," he says, his voice low and conspiratorial. "A couple of banged-up cars came through, but none of 'em were like the one she wanted to buy back."

My eyebrows lift slightly, interest piqued. "Why'd she want to buy it back if it's at the wreckers?"

Mikey starts scratching the back of his neck nervously. "Don't know. Woman has got enough money to buy a fleet of 'em if she wanted, but instead, she had Dillon get rid of it."

I feel the air shift, tension crackling like static electricity before a storm.

"She wanted to get rid of it, even though it's ended up here?"

"Dude, I don't know. You know the people here, their money does the talking so you just shut up and don't ask questions," Mikey replies, shrugging. "But she paid enough to make it disappear, so Dillon handled it."

My heart starts to hammer as the pieces start sliding into place like tumblers in a lock.

"What kind of car was it?"

"A black Porsche," Mikey says without hesitation. "Looked damn near new, too. These people don't have any concept of money."

A black Porsche.

A wealthy woman trying to erase its existence.

Recent damage.

My stomach churns as the threads of logic twist tighter, forming a picture I've been trying to see for months. Sometimes the truth doesn't hit you all at once—it creeps up slowly, piece by piece, until you can't ignore it anymore.

And this truth?

It's been hiding in plain sight all along.

Before I can press further, Dillon returns, dropping a dusty cardboard box on the counter with a dull thud.

"Here you go," he says, avoiding eye contact like a man with too many secrets.

I glance at the box but don't move to touch it. My mind's already racing ahead, connecting dots I've been staring at for months.