Part 12:

Mr. Cross, what you’re doing, exposing that cover up, it matters. Don’t let these people scare you. But Ethan was scared. Not for himself, but for Maya. That was the whole point of the threat. They knew exactly where to hit him. He picked Mia up from school personally that afternoon, ignoring the reporters who shouted questions as he walked her to the truck. Ma looked confused.

 Daddy, why are those people taking pictures? Don’t worry about them, Bug. They’re just doing their job. What job? Asking questions. About what? He helped her into the truck and buckled her seat belt. About work stuff. Nothing important. But Maya wasn’t stupid. She looked at him with those serious eyes. Are you in trouble? No.

 I’m helping fix a problem. Sometimes when you do that, people get upset. Oh. She seemed to accept this. Can we get ice cream? They got ice cream. Ethan let her order whatever she wanted, sat across from her in the booth, and tried to pretend everything was fine. She told him about art class and her friend Sophie, and how the class hamster escaped again.

 It was becoming a pattern. Ethan listened and smiled and didn’t think about the photo on his phone. That night, after Maya was asleep, Ethan went to the back room of his garage. He’d been avoiding it since the board meeting, but now he needed to see it again. the evidence, the 10 years of documentation. He stood in the doorway and looked at the shelves, all those parts, all those failures, all those people he couldn’t help. His phone rang. Unknown number.

 He answered anyway. Ethan Cross. A man’s voice, smooth and professional. Who’s asking? My name is Martin Kesler. I’m with a law firm representing several parties affected by the Celeste Motors recall. We’d like to talk to you about your documentation. I’m already working with attorneys, different attorneys.

 We represent the victims, the people who were injured. We’re building a class action lawsuit, and your evidence would be invaluable. I gave everything to the federal prosecutors. We’re not asking you to give us anything. We’re asking you to testify on behalf of the people who were hurt. Kesler paused. Mr. Cross, you documented 47 crashes.

 We represent 32 of those victims. They deserve their day in court. What’s in it for you? Standard contingency. 33% of any settlement or judgment. But these people get nothing if we can’t prove the company knew about the defect. You’re the only person who can do that. Ethan rubbed his eyes. I need to think about it.

 Of course, but don’t think too long. Statute of limitations is ticking on some of these claims. Kesler gave him a number. Call me when you’re ready. The next morning, the reporters were back. So were protesters. Ethan arrived at the shop to find about 20 people standing across the street holding signs.

 Stop destroying American jobs. Celeste Motors built this town. Cross is a traitor. He stared at them for a long moment. Some of the faces were familiar. People from town, people whose cars he’d fixed. One of them, a man in his 50s, Ethan recognized as Tom Brennan, shouted across the street, “You’re putting people out of work, Cross.

 40,000 jobs because you’ve got a grudge.” Ethan walked over. The protesters tensed, but he kept his hands visible, non-threatening. Tom, your daughter drives a 2018 Celeste sedan, right? Tom blinked. What’s that got to do with anything? I fixed it last year. Timing chain tensioner. Same defect I’ve been documenting.

 I showed you the broken part, remember? Told you it was a common failure. So, so that defect could have killed her. Could have seized her engine on the highway, sent her into a guardrail. Ethan kept his voice level. I’m not trying to destroy jobs. I’m trying to stop people from dying. There’s a difference.

 The company said they’re fixing it. They issued a recall. 10 years too late. Four people are already dead. Tom’s certainty wavered. That’s not They said it was an isolated issue. They lied. Ethan pulled out his phone and showed Tom the photo of the broken tensioner from his daughter’s car. This is what I’ve been documenting. Hundreds of these.

 All the same failure. All preventable. Tom looked at the photo, then at Ethan, then back at his fellow protesters. I didn’t know. Most people don’t. That’s the problem. Tom lowered his sign slowly. Two other protesters noticed and started arguing with him. Within minutes, the group was fragmenting. Some leaving, others doubling down.

 By noon, only six remained, but that night, someone threw a brick through the shop window. Ethan was home when it happened. The security company called at 11:47 p.m. He drove to the shop, found broken glass all over the floor, a brick sitting in the middle of the garage. On the brick written in black marker, “Leave town.

” The police came. Different deputy this time, older, more experienced. He took photos, wrote a report, told Ethan the same thing the first deputy had said. “We’ll investigate, but these things are hard to solve. Someone’s trying to run me out of business,” Ethan said. “I understand, Mr. Cross, but without witnesses or evidence, there’s a security camera across the street. The news vans.

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