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* Call police directly if Tom doesn’t respond

* Don't mention Maggie’s room

* Don't overmanage child as though she’s a hostile project

CHAPTER FOUR

Briggs

The bike’s making a noise.

Not a regular noise, the kind a man can ignore by twisting the throttle harder and pretending mechanical problems are just part of the bike’s personality. No, this is a deep, ugly rattle under the left side, the kind that says something expensive is thinking about quitting.

“Tell me it’s nothing,” I say flatly.

Wayne Calder slides out from under the bike on a creeper, one grease streaked hand braced against the concrete floor of Last Mile Garage. He looks at me over the top of his safety glasses.

“It’s nothing.”

I narrow my eyes at him.

He wipes his hand on a rag. “That help?”

“No.”

“Then why ask?”

Behind him, Fletcher Hale laughs, leaning against the workbench, eating a gas station burrito as if he doesn’t have a woman at home who could probably make him actual food. Rex Morgan sits on an overturned crate beside him, one long leg stretched out, boots crossed at the ankle, calm as ever.

Last Mile smells like oil, metal, rain, and terrible coffee, which still ranks among the best smells I know.

Maybe not the coffee. Wayne makes coffee as if it’s personally insulted him and needs to be punished.

I cross my arms and look at the bike.

“She looks wrong sitting still,” I say.

She’s blacked out, heavy, all muscle, without a wasted piece anywhere. She gets me where I need to go, and growls at anyone who gets too close.

Usually.

Now she’s sitting there with half her guts exposed while Wayne makes faces at her.

“Give it to me straight,” I say.

Fletcher lifts his burrito. “He did. You didn’t like it.”

I ignore him.

Wayne pushes himself up and leans over the open side of the bike. “You’ve got a mounting bracket cracked, and there’s a loose heat shield making that rattle. Easy fix.”

I grunt.

“But,” he adds.

People love a “but.” Never brings anything good.

“But what?”