The platinum necklace with the quarter-carat diamond pendant Dad had given me. The pearl and diamond earrings my grandmother gave me to wear to my wedding. The emerald and diamond tennis bracelet Aaron’s parents gave me when we’d become engaged. The gold bangles Aaron bought me for Valentine’s Day every year (which also was our wedding anniversary—cliché, now embarrassing, what with me being a hopeless romantic with emphasis on hopeless).

And my engagement and wedding rings.

I would start with selling the useless stuff Aaron and his folks gave me and then move on to the others when needed.

And I’d find an attorney who would take my case, be ruthless, get me the child support that Travis deserved, and make it clear to Aaron I was not going anywhere.

If that ran out, I’d find other ways, selling the furniture I got in the divorce that I had in storage (well, Dad did, since he paid for the unit) being one of them.

And if it came to it, I’d get on my knees.

I was just going to exhaust all my other options first.

But I wasn’t going to lose my son.

On this thought, there was a knock on the door and I looked to it.

I didn’t need company and I couldn’t comprehend how I’d have any. No one visited me.

But I’d left my car at Ride and I had a day shift at the store. I needed to take the bus. I’d looked up the route and one dropped off about three blocks from the store. But I had no idea how long it took. My normal commute was twenty minutes but I’d added on another thirty just in case.

I needed to get going.

I slid off the stool and went to the door. I looked through the peephole, saw coverall guy from Ride was standing outside (again in coveralls), and with some confusion, I opened the door.

“Hey,” I greeted, ready to tell him he could have called with the estimate. I hadn’t exactly given him my number, but Tyra was office manager at Ride and I’d given it to her.

He spoke before I could.

“Car’s downstairs.”

He held out my keys and my hand automatically lifted to take them.

He dropped them in my palm and continued talking, “New tires. New tranny. New plugs. New shocks. New exhaust. Oil change. Oh, and new wipers. Boys filled the tank and detailed it too. You’re all good.”

I blinked at him. “Tranny?”

“Transmission.”

Transmission?

What on earth?

Those cost a fortune.

“Transmission?” I whispered.

“Yeah.”

“I… uh, asked about an estimate—”

He interrupted me, “On Ride.”

“Sorry?”

“No charge. Ride is covering it. Means Chaos is covering it. You don’t owe anything.”

How?

Why?

What?