Part 3:

I’ve been running that company for 6 years, and nobody told me. Maybe you should have asked better questions.” She left without responding. Ethan stood in the empty garage for a long time after she was gone, wondering what the hell he just agreed to. Once that evening, after Maya was asleep, Ethan went back to the locked room.

 He started pulling files, organizing them chronologically. It was going to be a long night. His phone rang. He turned it back on to check for messages from Mrs. Patterson. The screen showed Rebecca Marsh’s number. This time, he answered. Mr. across. Thank you for I met with Celeste Vaughn today. Ethan said silence on the other end. Then you did what? She came to my shop, asked for help. Mr.

 Cross, you cannot talk to her without legal representation. She’s the defendant in multiple lawsuits. Anything you tell her. I didn’t tell her anything yet. Yet. I’m meeting with her tomorrow. She’s going to look at the evidence I’ve been collecting. That’s a terrible idea. probably. Mr. Cross, listen to me. Celeste Vaughn is not your friend.

 She’s trying to save herself. Whatever she’s promised you, she hasn’t promised me anything, and I haven’t promised her anything either. Rebecca’s voice sharpened. Then what are you doing? I’m tired of watching people get hurt because nobody wants to admit they  up. Ethan sat down on an overturned bucket.

 You want to hold them accountable? Fine. But I’m not going to be your witness until I know what actually happened. And the only way I figure that out is by making her look at what I’ve seen. And if she destroys the evidence, if she uses what you show her to build a defense, then I’ll know what kind of person she is.

 That’s not how this works. It’s how it’s working for me. Ethan stood up. I’ll call you after we meet. If there’s something worth talking about, we’ll talk. He hung up before she could argue. For a moment, he just stood there in the dim light of the back room, surrounded by a decade of broken parts and unanswered questions.

Then he got back to work. Maya had a half day at school on Friday, which meant Ethan had to close the shop early to pick her up. They went to the park. Even though it was cold and the wind cut through their jackets, Maya didn’t care. She ran straight for the swings. Push me, Daddy. Ethan pushed her, watched her laugh as she went higher.

 For a few minutes, he let himself forget about everything else. Just the rhythm of the swing, the sound of her laughter, the simple physics of motion. Higher? Maya shrieked. “You’re already pretty high, Bug.” “Higher!” he pushed harder. She squealled with delight. Another parent, a woman Ethan vaguely recognized from school pickup, approached with her own kid.

 “How do you do it?” she asked. Do what? Single parent thing. I’ve got two kids and a husband and I feel like I’m drowning half the time. Ethan shrugged. You just do it. No other choice. Still, it’s impressive. He didn’t feel impressive. He felt tired, but he smiled and said, “Thanks.” After the park, they got burgers at the only decent place in town.

 Maya told him about a boy in her class who ate a crayon. Ethan listened, made appropriate disgusted noises, and tried not to think about the meeting at 6:00. Mrs. Patterson picked Maya up at 5:30. “Hot date?” she asked with a knowing smile. “Work thing,” Ethan said. “On a Friday night.” “It’s important.” She gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him, but wasn’t going to push.

We’ll be fine. Take your time. At 5:55, Ethan unlocked the shop and turned on the lights. He’d spent the previous night organizing everything in the back room. Files in chronological order, parts labeled, photos printed and sorted. It looked less like a garage storage room and more like an evidence locker. At exactly 6:00 p.m.

, a black SUV pulled up outside. Celeste Vaughn got out, still in a suit, though this one was darker, less formal. She looked tired. She walked into the shop and stopped. Is this it? No. Back room. He led her through the garage, past the lifts and the tool chest to the locked door. He opened it and stepped aside. Celeste walked in and went very still.

The room wasn’t large, maybe 12 by 15 ft, but every wall was lined with shelving, and every shelf was packed, bins of parts, filing cabinets, boxes of documentation. On one wall, Ethan had hung a massive timeline he’d created the night before. A 10-year chart mapping part failures to dates, batch numbers, and known incidents.

 “This is what you’ve been doing?” Celeste asked quietly. “For 10 years.” She walked to the nearest shelf and picked up a bin. Inside were timing chain tensioners, maybe 30 of them, all cracked or broken in the same way. She set it down and opened a filing cabinet. Service records, hundreds of them. You kept all of this? Yeah.

 Why? Ethan leaned against the door frame. At first, I don’t know. Habit, maybe. I was trained to document failures. Then I realized nobody was listening, so I figured I’d better have proof if I ever needed it. Celeste pulled out a file at random. It was from 2015. A detailed analysis of a brake caliper failure. She read it silently, then pulled out another and another.

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