Chapter 4
The manager’s office was small, smelling of stale coffee and industrial carpet cleaner. Through the vertical blinds, the maroon convertible looked like a jewel resting in the industrial grey of the showroom floor. District Manager Harrison sat behind a mahogany-laminate desk, his forehead beaded with a light sweat as he nervously shuffled a stack of corporate compliance forms.
"There's just a standard storage fee," Harrison began, offering a tight, corporate smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Ninety days of indoor climate control, detailing maintenance, and security oversight. We can have an invoice generated by noon, and—"
"There will be no invoice," Julian interrupted, leaning his forearms on the edge of the desk. His blue eyes were cold and unyielding. "Your consignment agreement with the previous holder was voided the moment the federal probate judge verified the primary trust deed. My nephew owns the vehicle outright, and any attempt to charge storage fees for property that was illegally listed in your secondary inventory will result in an immediate audit by the state motor vehicle board."
Harrison’s smile vanished. He looked at Leo, hoping to find an ally in the young man who had been scrubbing wheels an hour ago, but Leo was staring blankly out the window, his mind miles away.
"Fine," Harrison muttered, pulling a thick set of brass keys from his desk drawer and sliding them across the blotter. "The title transfer is complete. You can take the car off the floor by the end of the day."
Leo picked up the keys. They were heavy, attached to a faded leather fob stamped with an old garage logo that he remembered sitting on his father's workbench. The metal was worn smooth at the edges from years of ignition turns.
Outside the office, the showroom was slowly coming to life. Sales reps were milling about, casting curious glances toward the manager’s office, whispering among themselves as the news of the vintage car’s true ownership rippled through the staff.
Julian stood beside Leo as they walked back out to the convertible. "You don't have to drive it today," Julian said quietly. "We can hire a flatbed. Bring it to my place in Westchester."
"No," Leo said, his voice steady. "I'm driving it."
He unlocked the driver's side door with a familiar metallic click. The mechanism was stiff, requiring a specific jiggle of the key that came back to him like muscle memory. When he pulled the handle, the door swung open with a heavy, solid thud, releasing the rich, unmistakable scent of aged leather, motor oil, and old dust. It was the smell of his childhood, preserved in a time capsule of steel and lacquer.
Leo slid into the tan interior. The seat springs groaned softly beneath his weight, conforming to his frame just as they used to when he was a small boy standing on the passenger seat, gripping the steering wheel while his father pretended to let him steer down the long, empty back roads of upstate New York.
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Julian walked around to the passenger side, opening the door and settling into the seat with a soft sigh of his own. He placed the heavy leather folder between his knees.
"Your father kept a notebook in the glove box," Julian said, nodding toward the dashboard. "He wrote down everything. Not just the mechanical specs of the car, but where he went, who he met, and why he had to leave."
