Chapter 2 - THE MECHANIC WHO DIED AFTER MY CRASH
I did not sleep.
At two in the morning, I sat inside my study staring at a file I had not opened in almost five years.
MICHAEL REED.
Age thirty-two.
Automotive electronics technician.
Whitaker Fleet Services.
Deceased.
Cause:
Garage fire.
Accidental.
I remembered him vaguely.
Quiet man.
Excellent diagnostics.
Once corrected one of my drivers about tire pressure in front of me and looked terrified afterward.
I had laughed.
Told him to keep correcting idiots.
He smiled.
That was almost everything I remembered.
Now his five-year-old daughter was barefoot in a Seattle park.
“Elena.”
She stood in my doorway.
“You should sleep.”
“Michael Reed.”
Her expression changed.
“What about him?”
“He worked for us.”
“You knew?”
“Not until she said the name.”
I turned the file.
“He died two months after my crash.”
Elena sat opposite me.
“You think they're connected?”
“I don't know.”
That answer irritated me.
So I called Marcus Hale, head of my private security.
At three fifteen, he arrived wearing sweatpants under a winter coat.
I almost respected him for it.
“Boss?”
“Reopen Reed's death.”
Marcus looked toward Elena.
Then back.
“Why?”
I stared.
He corrected:
“Right.”
Good survival instinct.
He took the file.
Then I said:
“And find Sophie.”
Elena immediately interrupted.
“No.”
Both of us looked at her.
“You do not send armed men hunting for a homeless five-year-old.”
“I wasn't going to—”
“You absolutely were.”
Marcus found something fascinating about the floor.
I sighed.
“What do you suggest?”
“Social worker.”
I stared.
Elena crossed her arms.
“Try legality. It's fashionable.”
I hated when she was right.
By morning, a community outreach team found Sophie.
She had been sleeping with four other children and two women in an abandoned church annex near the park.
No kidnapping.
No dramatic rescue.
Housing services were contacted.
Emergency placement arranged.
Shoes provided.
Food.
Medical examination.
Sophie refused to leave until the other children were included.
Of course she did.
That afternoon, Marcus returned.
His face told me enough.
“What?”
“Michael Reed filed an internal report eight days before your crash.”
I stopped.
“About?”
“The vehicle.”
My vehicle.
“Specifically the electronic brake-control module.”
I stared.
“What did it say?”
“Serial number didn't match manufacturer records.”
“Counterfeit?”
“Possibly.”
“Who received the report?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Vincent.”
My cousin.
Vincent Whitaker had run fleet operations at the time.
After my accident, he became chief operating officer over nearly every legitimate Whitaker company because I couldn't travel easily.
For five years, he'd called me brother.
“Did I see the report?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Vincent marked it resolved.”
“How?”
Marcus opened the file.
“Reinspection.”
“By whom?”
There was no name.
My voice became quiet.
“That's not an answer.”
“No.”
Then Marcus placed another page in front of me.
Michael had filed a second report.
Two days before my crash.
URGENT.
Vehicle unsafe for high-speed operation.
That report never reached me either.
I stared at the paper.
May you like
Five years earlier, I believed a mountain curve had taken my legs.
Maybe the curve had only finished what someone else started.
