The garage door was open. Coffee in my hand went cold as I stared through the kitchen window. Dennis never left it open—not once in forty-three years. Eight months had passed since his death, yet I still caught myself expecting him to walk through the house. Slippers on, I stepped outside. Spring air kissed my face. Concrete pressed cold underfoot. Wake-up cold.
Something was wrong. Too still. Too empty.
The oil stain he left behind—twenty years of work—glimmered like a ghost imprint. But the Shelby? Gone. Vanished overnight.
I braced against the doorframe, breathing slow, steady breaths I’d taught ICU patients. Control what you can control. But my mind froze on the empty space. The workbench called me. Dennis’s journal lay there, untouched. Last entry: three weeks before he died. “Almost done. Can’t wait to teach Carol to drive her properly. Road trip next summer.”
Every tool, every smell—motor oil, leather, orange hand soap—was still here. Everything except the car.
Brian’s BMW snapped me out of it. He and Vanessa appeared, dripping wealth and smugness.
“Mom… we need to talk.”
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