I opened the door. The leather seat was warm from the afternoon sun and as smooth as chocolate milk. The cheerful dinging of the door being opened was heaven. I put in the key, checked that it was in neutral, pushed in the clutch, and started it up. The thrum of the engine was freedom itself. I shut the door and beamed at Glenn. “Really?” I asked, voice cracking.

He nodded, beaming.

I was delighted. With my broken arm, I couldn’t safely manage the gearshift, but I could try all the buttons. I turned on the radio, thinking it must be an omen when Madonna thundered out. I turned “Material Girl” down and opened the glove box just to see my name on the registration. A thick yellow business-size envelope slid out, and I picked it up off the floor.

“I didn’t put that there,” Glenn said, his voice carrying a new concern.

I brought it to my nose, my face going slack as I recognized the clean scent of pine. “It’s from Trent.”

Glenn straightened. “Get out of the car,” he said in a hard staccato, every syllable laced with authority.

“Don’t be stupid,” I said. “If he wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have had Quen bail me out.”

Jaw tight, Glenn opened the door. My car started chiming. “Get out. I’ll have it looked at and bring it over tomorrow.”

“Glenn …” I cajoled as I opened the envelope and my protests wavered. “Um,” I stammered. “He’s not trying to kill me, he’s paying me.”

Glenn leaned to see, and I tilted the envelope to him. A muttered oath came from him. “How much is that, you think?” he asked as I closed it and shoved it in my bag.

“I’m guessing eighteen thousand.” I tried to be cavalier, ruining it with my trembling fingers. “It was what he offered me to clear his name.” Brushing the hair from my eyes, I looked up. My breath caught. Visible in the rearview mirror was Trent’s Gray Ghost limo sitting in the fire lane. It hadn’t been there a moment ago. At least, I hadn’t seen it. Trent and Jonathan were standing beside it. Glenn saw where my attention was and turned.

“Oh,” he said, then a concerned wariness tightened the corners of his eyes. “Rachel, I’m going to go over to the ticket booth right over there …” He pointed. “… and talk to the lady about possibly buying a block of seats for the FIB’s company picnic next year.” He hesitated, shutting my door with a solid thump. His dark fingers stood out against the bright red paint. “You going to be all right?”

“Yeah.” I pulled my eyes from Trent. “Thanks, Glenn. If he kills me, tell your dad I loved the car.”

A trace of a smile crossed him, and he turned away.

My eyes were fixed to my rearview mirror as his steps grew faint. Behind me came a roar of fans as the game began. I watched Trent have an intent conversation with Jonathan. He left the angry tall man and ambled slowly to me. His hands were in his pockets and he looked good. Better than good, really, dressed in casual slacks, comfortable shoes, and a cable-knit sweater against the slight chill in the air. The collar of a silk shirt the color of midnight showed behind it, contrasting wonderfully with his tan. A tweed cap shaded his green eyes and kept his fine hair under control.