Chapter 2 - THE GIRL WITH THE RED WRENCH
The darker instinct told Adrian Moretti that a man like him did not break down by accident.
He stared at the silent road.
Nothing moved except heat.
Then he heard a small voice behind him.
“Your car looks mad.”
Adrian turned so quickly his hand went beneath his jacket on instinct.
A little girl stood fifteen feet away in the weeds.
Six, maybe.
Brown hair had been pulled into two uneven braids. One had nearly come apart. Her faded yellow T-shirt had a cartoon dinosaur on the front, and purple sneakers were dusted white from the gravel shoulder.
In one hand she carried a red adjustable wrench.
Adrian slowly lowered his hand.
“Where did you come from?”
She pointed behind her.
“Home.”
There was no house visible.
Only weeds, maple trees, and a narrow dirt lane Adrian had not noticed because the entrance was almost hidden behind an old wooden mailbox.
The girl walked closer and studied the steam beneath his hood.
“Did you yell at it?”
“At the car?”
She nodded seriously.
“Mom says yelling doesn’t fix engines.”
“Your mother sounds very wise.”
“She fixes everything.”
The child held out the wrench.
“You can borrow this.”
Adrian looked at the wrench.
Then at the steaming engine.
Then back at the girl.
“I appreciate the confidence, but I don’t think this is going to be enough.”
She frowned.
“It’s a good wrench.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“Mom can fix your car.”
That finally made him smile.
“Can she?”
“She fixed Mr. Patterson’s tractor when it made smoke. She fixed the church van. And she fixed my bike even after I rode it down the porch steps.”
“That sounds impressive.”
“It was.”
She came another step closer.
“What’s your name?”
Children were strange creatures.
Adults usually knew Adrian’s name before he entered a room.
Some became nervous.
Some became eager.
Some became careful.
This girl looked at him as if he were simply a man who had failed to take proper care of his engine.
“Adrian.”
“I’m Maya.”
“Maya.”
“Maya Bennett.”
She pointed toward the hidden lane.
“Come on.”
Adrian hesitated.
“I probably shouldn’t leave the car.”
Maya looked around at the completely empty road.
“Who’s going to steal it?”
He stared at her.
She shrugged.
“Also, it doesn’t work.”
That was harder to argue with.
Adrian locked the sedan and followed.
The dirt lane curved through a stand of trees before opening into a property he never would have seen from the road.
A small white farmhouse sat on one side.
On the other stood a weathered red building with two garage bays and a hand-painted sign.
BENNETT AUTO & FARM REPAIR.
One bay was open.
An old Ford pickup sat inside with its hood raised.
Classic rock played quietly from a radio somewhere.
The woman leaning beneath the truck wore faded jeans, black work boots, and a gray sleeveless shirt darkened with sweat between her shoulder blades. Auburn hair was twisted into a loose knot at the back of her head.
“Maya?” she called without turning. “Please tell me you did not take my ten-inch adjustable again.”
“I brought you a customer.”
The woman straightened.
She was wiping grease from her hands when she turned.
Adrian stopped walking.
The rag slipped from her fingers.
Seven years disappeared.
Not gradually.
Not gently.
One second he was thirty-eight years old in a dusty repair yard in Dutchess County.
The next he was thirty-one again, standing outside a little diner during a thunderstorm while a woman with auburn hair laughed because he had ruined a pair of expensive shoes in a mud puddle.
“Claire.”
Her face lost all color.
Maya looked between them.
“You know my mom?”
Claire Bennett said nothing.
Adrian knew her as Claire Sullivan.
Seven years ago, before his father’s death.
Before a war inside the Moretti organization had turned Adrian from a reluctant heir into the man everyone feared would become his father.
He had met Claire because another car had broken down.
That irony would have been funny if Adrian could breathe.
He had been driving north to inspect a Moretti warehouse when an alternator failed. Claire had been twenty-seven, working in her uncle’s garage, arguing with a supplier on the phone and rebuilding a transmission at the same time.
Adrian stayed three days.
Then three weeks.
Then nearly every weekend for five months.
Claire had known his family had money.
She had known they were dangerous.
She had never cared enough to be impressed.
She had been the only woman he remembered telling him he was being an idiot without lowering her voice.
Then his father had been killed.
Adrian had returned to Manhattan.
The world collapsed.
And Claire disappeared.
Her number changed.
Letters he mailed came back.
The apartment she had rented was empty.
Her uncle claimed she had moved west.
Adrian had spent years telling himself she had chosen to leave.
“Mom?” Maya whispered.
Claire bent quickly to pick up the rag.
“What happened to your car?”
Her voice was controlled.
Too controlled.
“Claire.”
“What happened?”
“Water pump, I think.”
“I’ll take a look.”
“You disappeared.”
Maya’s eyes widened.
Claire looked at her daughter.
“Maya, sweetheart, could you go inside and bring me two bottles of water?”
“But—”
“Please.”
Maya looked at Adrian once more before running toward the farmhouse.
Claire waited until the screen door slammed.
Then she turned.
“You need to go.”
“My car can’t.”
“I’ll fix it.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean.”
Adrian stepped closer.
“Seven years.”
“Yes.”
“You changed your number.”
“Yes.”
“You moved.”
“Yes.”
“You never answered me.”
Something flickered across her face.
Pain.
Then anger buried it.
“I never answered you?”
“No.”
Claire gave a short laugh that held no humor at all.
“That’s what you believe?”
“I called you for months.”
“You think I didn’t call?”
Adrian went still.
Claire looked away first.
“I’m checking your car.”
She walked toward an old tow truck parked beside the garage.
Adrian followed.
“Claire.”
“Don’t.”
“What happened?”
“You happened.”
She pulled open the truck door.
Before Adrian could answer, the farmhouse screen opened and Maya came running back with water bottles pressed against her chest.
Claire immediately changed.
Her shoulders relaxed.
Her voice softened.
“Thank you, bug.”
Maya handed Adrian one bottle.
“You look sweaty.”
“I am sweaty.”
“My mom says fancy clothes are dumb in August.”
“Maya.”
“What? You do.”
Adrian almost laughed.
Claire did not.
Twenty minutes later, the Moretti sedan rolled into Bennett Auto behind Claire’s tow truck.
Adrian watched her work.
She was still exceptional.
Her movements were confident and economical. She found the damaged water pump quickly, checked the belt, examined the radiator, and muttered something about European engineers making simple repairs unnecessarily expensive.
Maya sat on a stool drinking apple juice.
Adrian found himself watching her.
Something about the child bothered him.
Not in a bad way.
In a familiar way.
She tapped three fingers against her knee whenever she concentrated.
Adrian did that.
His father had done it too.
Coincidence.
Then Maya frowned at a stripped bolt.
Her left eyebrow rose higher than the right.
Adrian’s stomach tightened.
His mother had teased him about that expression his entire childhood.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Six.”
Claire’s wrench stopped moving.
Maya swung her legs.
“Six and three months.”
Adrian looked at Claire.
She kept her eyes on the engine.
His mind calculated before he could stop it.
Seven years since Claire disappeared.
Six years and three months.
Pregnancy.
Birth.
Dates.
No.
He felt ridiculous even considering it.
Then Maya hopped down.
“I’m hungry.”
“There are crackers in my bag,” Claire said.
Maya ran toward the office.
Adrian waited until she disappeared.
“Claire.”
“Don’t.”
“Is she mine?”
The garage became silent.
Even the radio seemed suddenly far away.
Claire slowly set down the socket wrench.
Her eyes lifted to his.
For seven years, Adrian had imagined this woman giving him a hundred answers about why she left.
None of them had looked like the fear on her face now.
Before she could speak, tires crunched outside.
Claire turned sharply.
A black SUV moved slowly past the entrance to the property.
It did not turn in.
It simply rolled along the road.
Dark windows.
No front plate.
Adrian watched until it disappeared behind the trees.
Claire’s breathing had changed.
He noticed immediately.
“You know that vehicle?”
“No.”
“You’re lying.”
“I said no.”
“You stopped breathing when you saw it.”
Her eyes snapped toward him.
For the first time since he arrived, the anger vanished.
What remained was fear.
Real fear.
“Take your car when I finish,” she whispered. “Go back to Manhattan.”
“Claire—”
“And do not come back here.”
Adrian looked toward the office where Maya was humming to herself.
Then back toward the road.
The irritation he had felt when his car overheated was gone.
So was the desire for solitude.
Something had followed him here.
Or someone had been waiting.
And suddenly Adrian understood one thing with absolute certainty.
May you like
His broken sedan was not the biggest problem on this road.
Not even close.
