The storm rolled in without warning.
Not the violent, window-rattling kind, this one slipped beneath the skin. A quiet, electric pressure that made neon signs flicker and the night hold its breath.
Rebecca "Becks" Morgan killed the Camaro's engine as she eased into the alley behind her garage. The car ticked as it cooled, each metallic ping echoing off brick walls glazed with condensation. She stayed behind the wheel for a beat, waiting for the stillness to settle.
It didn't.
A wrongness hummed at the edges of her instincts, the kind only mechanics and mothers ever trusted. The hairs on her arms lifted.
Becks slid out of her black '69 Camaro, boots scraping the pavement. The back door of the garage hung cracked open, swaying like someone had just slipped through.
Cody should've been asleep. He didn't sneak. And Lucy wouldn't drop by without calling; she swore Becks kept "murder hours."
Becks eased the door open.
The sight hit her harder than the cold air.
Her garage, her sanctuary, her father's legacy, was torn apart. Crates overturned. Parts scattered. Drawers yanked open. Not chaos.
A search.
Her fingers tightened around the wrench she didn't remember picking up.
"Hello?" she called softly.
The shadows answered.
A tall figure stepped from behind the lift, dressed in a tailored suit far too clean for grease and gears. Slicked back hair. Blue eyes sharp as cut steel.
Oliver Scanlon.
He smiled like he owned the night.
"Rebecca," he said, hands in his pockets. "You have something of mine."
Her grip tightened. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Too quick. Too sharp. He noticed.
His gaze drifted to her father's toolbox, drawers pried open like ribs.
"You're resourceful," he said, stepping around a broken headlight. "But you've wandered into a lane you don't belong in."
He stopped close enough for the scent of expensive cologne, and something colder beneath it, to reach her.
"Next time," he murmured, "I won't be the one who comes calling."
A metallic clatter echoed from the alley. He didn't flinch. Didn't hurry. Just turned and walked out as if leaving a dinner party.
When he was gone, Becks finally breathed, shallow, unsteady, furious.
Two things were now painfully clear: Oliver Scanlon wasn't bluffing. And whatever she'd found in that car earlier wasn't an accident.
Her phone buzzed.
A text from Lucy: You alive? Got a feeling. Don't ignore me.
Becks wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. She couldn't tell Lucy. Not yet. And Cody, never. The garage was too quiet now.
She locked up, shut off the lights, and backed into the alley. The Camaro waited, headlights catching the moisture in her eyes.
"I'll keep you safe," she whispered. "Whatever it costs."
Tonight, everything shifted. Tonight, she crossed a line she couldn't uncross.
And across town, Detective Declan Stone closed the file on a syndicate he'd chased for two years, unaware his biggest lead had just stepped into the crosshairs.