Just one thing.
“Keep the car,” he said.
Marcus had.
The outside stayed almost exactly the same.
The inside became something else.
Because Marcus knew better than most men that a thing could look tired and still be more dangerous than anything shining beside it.
Three days after the lawsuit landed, Marcus got a call from a reporter named Rachel Sloan.
She worked for a local station, but she didn’t sound hungry in the ugly way some reporters did. She sounded careful.
“I’ve seen the clip,” she said. “And I think there’s more here than one race.”
Marcus leaned back in his chair.
“What kind of more?”
“The kind that usually leaves a trail.”
They met in a coffee shop downtown where nobody from Coyote Ridge would be caught dead drinking from a paper cup unless there was a camera around.
Rachel was in her forties, sharp-eyed, hair pulled back, notebook already open before Marcus sat down.
She watched the dash-cam footage twice.
On the second time, she paused Grant’s face right after he said, “This isn’t your kind of neighborhood.”
“That line,” she said quietly. “That’s not about a car.”
“No,” Marcus said.
“Has he done this before?”
Marcus shook his head.
“Not to me.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He understood then what she was really after.
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