Where’d you hear about that? I have people who track down vehicles like yours. I’ve been looking for one for a long time. May I see it? Ethan looked at the convoy. Four vehicles. At least six people that he could count. All of this for a dusty Mustang in a desert garage. It’s not for sale, he said. Aurora smiled.
It was a professional smile, the kind that had probably closed a thousand deals. I didn’t ask to buy it. I asked to see it. He thought about it. There was no good reason to say no. Saying no would be suspicious, and suspicion would lead to more questions. Better to show her the car, let her see the flat tires and cracked windshield, and send her on her way. “Come on,” he said.
He led her into the garage through the side door. The two men in suits followed. Ethan noticed one of them looking at the ceiling joist, checking the structure, probably calculating the value of the property. The other was already typing on his tablet. They walked past Hector’s truck, past the empty bay where Donna’s Jeep had been, and stopped at the canvas tarp. Ethan pulled it aside.
Aurora’s reaction was subtle, but unmistakable. She went still. The professional composure didn’t crack exactly, but there was a shift, a slight widening of the eyes, a barely perceptible intake of breath. She was looking at the car the way some people looked at paintings in museums, not at the condition, past the condition.
She was seeing something underneath. She walked around the Mustang slowly, trailing her fingers just above the surface without actually touching it. She crouched near the rear quarter panel, studying the body lines. She peered through the grimy driver’s window at the interior. “May I open the hood?” she asked. “Go ahead.
” She nodded to one of the suit men who stepped forward and released the hood latch. It stuck, then popped with a groan. Inside, the engine was covered in dust, but the block was there. the headers, the intake manifold. All original as far as Ethan could tell. Aurora stared at the engine for a long time.
Then she straightened up and looked at Ethan. I’ll give you $2 million for it. The garage went quiet. Even the box fan seemed to pause. Ethan stared at her. What? 2 million cash? I can have the wire sent today. We can arrange transport by tomorrow. He almost laughed. The number was so far outside his reality that it didn’t even register as a real offer. $2 million.
He had $412 in his checking account and a broken ceiling fan. You’re serious, he said. I don’t make offers I don’t mean. You just looked at it for 3 minutes. I’ve been researching this vehicle for longer than that. I know what I’m looking at. Ethan crossed his arms. His heart was pounding, but he kept his face still. And what are you looking at? A 1968 Mustang fastback in original unrestored condition.
Rare color, matching numbers, engine, desirable body style. In this market, that’s worth about 30 to 40,000, Ethan said. Maybe 50 if you find the right buyer. Aurora tilted her head slightly. Then why would I offer 2 million? The question hung between them. Ethan felt the weight of it. She knew something. She knew more than she was saying.
And the fact that she was here with four Escalades and a team of suits meant she knew it well enough to fly across the country for it. Look, Aurora said, and her voice shifted, warmer, more personal. The negotiation voice. I understand this car has sentimental value. Your father’s vehicle. I respect that. But $2 million is a life-changing sum for you and for your daughter. Ethan’s jaw tightened.
How do you know I have a daughter? Public records. I’m thorough. Thorough. He said the word like it tasted bad. I’m not trying to take advantage of you, Mr. Cross. I’m making a legitimate offer at a premium that no other buyer would match. I’m giving you the opportunity to No. Aurora stopped mid-sentence. No.
No car is worth $2 million unless you know its story. He looked at her directly. and I don’t think you’re telling me everything about what you know. She studied him for a long moment. The professional smile came back, but it was thinner now, tighter. You’re making a mistake. Maybe I’ll leave my card. When you change your mind, I won’t.
She reached into her blazer and produced a business card. Heavy stock, embossed lettering. She set it on the workbench next to a can of WD40 and a pair of needle-nose pliers. When you change your mind, she repeated. Then she turned and walked out. The suits followed. Doors opened and closed. Engines started.
The convoy pulled out of the lot and disappeared down Route 7, leaving nothing but dust and the smell of premium gasoline. Ethan stood in the garage and stared at the card on the workbench. His hands were shaking, not from fear, from the effort of saying no. $2 million. He picked up the card, looked at it, and put it in his shirt pocket.
Then he walked over to the Mustang and pulled the tarp back into place. “What are you worth?” he muttered. “Really?” Lily found out about the offer at dinner. Ethan hadn’t planned to tell her. He’d planned to keep the whole thing quiet. the case, the documents, Aurora Veil, the $2 million, all of it. Lily was 12. She didn’t need to be involved in decisions about money and mystery cars and billionaire women with convoys.
But Red Creek was a small town, and small towns had no secrets. Carl Briggs, who ran the hardware store, had seen the Escalades pull into Ethan’s lot. He told his wife. His wife had told the woman who ran the laundromat. the laundromat woman had told the bus driver. And the bus driver had mentioned it to Lily on the ride home.
