Chapter 11 Gianna
Gianna
PRESENT
An old saying is playing on repeat in my mind as I lurk in the dark alleyways of Empire City.
Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.
I’m still on edge about what happened at Paws on the Coast last night, with the reappearance of the silver mask.
When my shock subsided, I inspected the mask properly and found it wasn’t made of resin and fibreglass, which means it’s not Jace’s mask.
But it was a damn good replica. Whoever made it knew what the original looked like and went to a lot of effort to recreate it. The question is why, and who?
I have this horrible, foreboding feeling I can’t shake, so I’m not about to enter a race without knowing everything about Landon.
Earlier today, I did some digging around the rumour mill – meaning I sucked up to the regular groupies and promised them a photoshoot with the Mustang.
The girls then revealed that Landon’s just opened his own chop shop in the industrial area of Empire City – Midnight Spares.
Now I’m doing some night-time recon to see if Landon’s made any modifications to his Civic.
It’s that time of night when everything takes on a blue hue and the shadows feel like they’re whispering to you.
I slip through a narrow gap in the chain-link fence and cross the small lot that’s littered with scrap metal.
I approach the front door which has a thick chain wrapped around its handles.
I pull until the chains are taut, cursing when the opening it creates is just too small for me to squeeze through.
I grab the cheap padlock and flip it around.
From my back pocket, I pull out my metal nail file and start working the lock.
I love being a woman.
I jiggle the nail file then twist, the serrated edge of the metal cutting into my fingers as I ply the tool.
I think the lock’s about to give, but I use too much force and the file snaps in two.
Half of it’s lodged in the hole. Removing the bobby pin that holds my curls out of my face, I insert the pin into the free space at the bottom of the keyhole.
Using lighter pressure this time, I jiggle some more until the lock clicks free. Leaving the chain wrapped around the handles, I open the door just enough to duck down and slip through the space. When I’m inside I pull out my phone and switch on the torch.
This place is a dump.
The guts of cars are splayed out all over the ground, entire motors dissected into parts – not uncommon for a chop shop, but there’s something else about this place.
It doesn’t smell homey, like the Fernando Garage.
Oil should smell like oil no matter where it’s spilled, but there’s no warmth to it here.
This place smells like it destroys, not revives.
I see a few chassis sheeted by car covers.
Tentatively, I peek under one tarp to find a Z28 Camaro Indy Pace Car, perfect apart from the missing numberplate, a hood that’s been ripped off and the empty engine bay.
I move to the next covered vehicle, bunching the cover before ripping it off.
A ’98 Dodge Viper GTS – again, perfect, but there are no plates or engine.
The last car is a ’57 Ford T-Bird. I’m not surprised when there’s no engine, but that’s not all.
The front left indicator is shattered. I crouch down, running my fingers along the sharp plastic that bites into my skin.
The surrounding bodywork is perfect, meaning this wasn’t caused by a hit.
The break was intentional. I shine my torch and notice the fried wiring inside.
In these older cars, that would be enough to short-circuit the aftermarket alarm system and stop it from sounding.
This isn’t right. Every car in here is being torn apart, which they’re in the right place for, but why these cars? They’re all classics. There’s close to half a million dollars sitting right here in pristine cars you wouldn’t dream of ripping apart.
I double back, leaning into the open hood of the Camaro to check for the VIN plate.
The numbers are scratched but still discernible.
I punch them into my phone, using the same software we use at the garage to run a vehicle check.
Red text floods the page. I refuse to believe my eyes and hit refresh. I enter the numbers again.
Shit. It’s stolen.
I go to check the other cars, though their VINs are filed down so much that the plates are smooth. Landon’s dealing in stolen car parts.
My phone buzzes in my hands, making me jump. I read the text.
Dr Aimee: Sorry I didn’t message earlier. I saw the first-aid box left out and wanted to make sure you’re okay?
I squeeze the device. The images of the last twenty-four hours replay fresh in my mind. How Landon slipped me the details of the race. How Ryker appeared at the clinic. There was a moment – only a moment, but it was there. A kindness. A flicker of his old self.
Then that damn silver mask materialised on the doorstep.
I shoot off a reply, right before the rasp of engines approaching makes my stomach drop.
I freeze for a second, the only second I have before the floor-to-ceiling metal shutters on the side of the building shake and start to rise.
I dash between the Camaro and Viper as the overhead lights come on.
The Camaro has been lowered, so I shuffle underneath the undercarriage of the Viper, my cheek pressed to the gritty cement floor.
Landon’s Civic pulls into the open space, followed by the whistling sputter of a Porsche 911 Turbo screaming as it downshifts.
’86 model … a widow-maker.
I hold my breath, literally using my hands to dampen the sound, and watch a pair of boat shoes moving across the floor. My eardrums pulse with my heart.
‘Nice boost tonight, Lex. You’re getting better at this,’ Landon says when the driver of the Porsche steps out. Or limps. It seems he’s banged up his leg pretty bad.
‘Yeah,’ a gruff voice replies. ‘You want the plates sanded down tonight?’
‘Sand it down but don’t take it apart yet. This needs a new paint job.’
‘Paint job?’
‘Yeah, find a painter. I’ve heard the best is over at Fernando’s. Any colour, it doesn’t matter. Get it done this week, but give it a few days for the heat to die down. The owner’s gonna be looking for this one.’
‘What’s next on the list? That pretty girl from the other night’s got a nice Mustang.’
‘Don’t worry about that one. Not yet, anyway. She’s meeting us for the race tomorrow. I’ll get it when the time’s right.’
Heat bursts underneath my skin. That fucker isn’t getting anywhere near my car. How many cars does he plan to steal? What’s he doing with them all?
A sudden siren sounds before the flashing lights of a police car appear, and I’m doused with relief.
‘Officer,’ Landon chimes before the doors slam shut.
‘Put your hands over your heads and step away from the vehicle,’ a new voice says, only there’s no authority in his voice.
‘Stop fucking around, Frank,’ Landon laughs. ‘You here for your cut?’
The cops are in on this too?
A chrome wheel against the wall allows me to catch their reflection and watch the exchange in a blur: Landon hands over a fat wad of cash, the cops ask him how his physio is going like it’s the most casual thing in the world, and the headlights of the police car reverse out and disappear. As if they saw nothing.
Same as that night so long ago.
‘I’m telling you what I saw,’ I scream, slamming my hands down on the table. ‘It was a hit-and-run.’
I feel lightheaded and dizzy. I have to squint before the two police officers come into focus. One burly, with a thick grey moustache, the other younger, like he just came out of the academy.
‘Gia, we haven’t found any evidence of another car,’ the burly one says, ‘If you have any identifying—’
‘I told you already, it was an Aston Martin, it belongs to one of the ECU boys. I saw them driving around in it earlier that afternoon. It’s the car that hit him, I saw it. We all did.’
‘The motorbike’s brakes failed. We’ve run the diagnostics. What happened here is a tragic accident … And no one from ECU was at the event. They all have alibis.’
‘Bullshit!’
Burly leans back in his chair, interlacing his hands behind his head. He shoots his partner a look.
‘Tell that intern to bring in the pamphlets. The one that just finished shift at the speedway.’
‘The old guy? Dellenty?’
‘Whatever his name is, tell him to get the pamphlets.’
The sidekick sticks his head out the door, screaming down the hallway. A moment later, a man appears holding a few sheets of folded-up paper. He shoots me a sympathetic smile before the door’s closed in his face.
Three glossy pamphlets are placed on the table in front of me.
‘Gia.’ The seated officer pushes the papers closer.
‘We’re closing the case. There’s nothing left to investigate here.
What you and your friends are going through is tough.
Sometimes, when we’re dealing with grief, our minds create stories to make sense of things.
You can call this number any time for mental health support. ’
I blink at them both before reaching for the brochures and tearing them in half. ‘I don’t need mental health support. I need you to do your job!’
The sound of Landon and his friend closing the doors to the Civic snaps me back into the moment, then the roller door screeches closed, leaving me in darkness. I scrunch my eyes closed and clutch at my heart. I try to slow my breathing but my shaky inhales don’t lessen the anxiety.
I stay still for several more minutes, trying to focus on the steady drip from the wash bay across the room. The silent moments in between are deafening.
When I’m sure it’s safe, it takes an effort to get my body to move.
I feel heavy, like lead is weighing down every limb.
I slip out the front door and click the lock back in place, my file falling from the latch and hitting the cement with a clang.
I kick it off to the side to join the pile of scrap metal.
When I make it back to the Mustang I’d parked several blocks away, Chuckie shifts in the passenger seat. He bumps me a few times with his cold nose before pressing his head into me, providing comfort. Dogs always know.
I should tell someone about what I just saw. What I just witnessed. But who?
My fingers tremble as I pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over all the names in my contact list. I can’t tell Monz, because she’d grill me for doing what I said I wouldn’t.
Telling Mr Fernando would mean talking about why I don’t trust the police. It would mean reliving that night.
Ryker. My heart skips. No.
There’s no one who can help me, especially not the cops, but I can’t just do nothing.
I toss my phone into the centre console and grip the wheel to head back home.
When the road opens up, I press down on the gas, watching as the speedometer climbs.
Deep in my chest, a long-sleeping rage begins to build.
Rage for what happened four years ago and what’s happening now.
The feeling twists violently, like a blunt knife that takes time to pierce.
It courses through me like dirty oil being drained from a sump.
Landon is after my car, but that fucker is not getting anywhere near our Mustang.