Chapter 20
Detective Yankovic lied to me. My car was not fine by the time I got dropped off at the jewelry store. It took nearly an hour to figure out who towed my car and where they took it. I’ll be sure to forward my impound bill to the Doomwood Falls Police Department, Attention: Detective Yankovic.
Last Stop Impound and Towing squats at the edge of town next to a junkyard, surrounded by a chain-link fence crowned with barbed wire and floodlights buzzing even in daylight. Cars sit nose to tail, their windshields filmed with dust, each one waiting to be claimed but probably forgotten about.
I push through the gate and it shrieks, the metal on metal needling my eardrums. Near the front of the lot is the office, dingy and empty.
On the counter an old tube television plays a rerun of the soap opera Shahrzad, the actors all speaking in Persian.
I’m beginning to get engrossed in the romantic drama between Shahrzad and Farhad when the screen goes black.
“I do not know how that got on there.” Flustered at getting caught with his guilty pleasure, Ali Azad fumbles with the television knob before pivoting to me. “How can I help you, Shari?”
He stands behind the counter inside the cinderblock office, his short-sleeved uniform revealing a blanket of dark arm hair. A clipboard is tucked against his chest like a shield.
“You have my car.” I keep my voice level, though my hands are fists inside my pockets because I’m ticked off at whoever did this.
With Luca’s bail costs and now an impound bill, my credit card is going to end up maxed out.
On the plus side, I’ve been meaning to lose weight and a starvation diet is probably effective.
He nods, sets the clipboard down, and turns a computer monitor toward himself. The screen glow paints his brown skin a pale blue. “Catalano. Silver sedan.”
“That’s right.”
One finger jabs at the keyboard a letter at a time, and it takes forever.
I watch his knuckles and the faint scar across the back of his right hand.
I’ve seen that hand wave from across the street, hold a Delster Iranian malt beverage at block parties, fiddle with the settings on one of my cameras during photography classes…
which he also quit, by the way. It’s one more hit against my business, but who’s counting?
He prints the receipt and slides it across the counter at me. The paper curls at the edges.
I stare at the total in shock. “This has to be a mistake.”
He doesn’t look up. “It is standard fee.”
“My car was legally parked,” I insist, but the words feel brittle and useless. “Someone called you to tow my car just to be cruel. I want to know who.”
Ali’s jaw strains, but he doesn’t answer.
“Who called the tow truck on my car?” I repeat.
He leans forward and props his elbows on the counter. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it matters, because I was wrongfully towed.” Someone else should be paying for this. Every dollar.
Ali’s gaze drifts past me, out beyond the grime-crusted window that overlooks the lot. “You want your automobile or no?”
I plant my palms on the counter. The laminate is sticky, worn smooth by other desperate hands. Hoping to appeal to Ali’s humanity and our months of friendship, I resort to begging.
“Please, Ali. We’ve been neighbors for a year. You know me! I think someone has been targeting me ever since Ivory went missing. I think whoever it is did this to me.”
He exhales through his nose as his eyes slide back to mine. There’s something new there—pity, maybe. “I was outside of jewelry store. On street.”
A memory surfaces unbidden: the squad car door closing, the passing storefronts, the man watching me from the alley’s shadows.
“So you decided to tow my car? What do you have against me?”
He studies me like he’s weighing the cost of honesty. “I do not want murderer living on my street. I worry for Zala’s safety having you here.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.”
“No more lies. The whole neighborhood talks. We all know about your past, Shari.”
I think of the blinds across the street twitching closed, the way conversations die when I approach a neighbor out in public. “You towed my car because you think I’m guilty.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t bother to ask me about my past before you made a judgement about me?”
His eyes harden. “Why would I help you?”
Because I’ve invited him into my home. Because I’ve played matchmaker for him and Zala. Because last summer he borrowed my ladder and still has yet to return it. I don’t say any of this as the words rot on my tongue.
“Whole neighborhood wants you gone,” he adds, softer now. “This is just… encouragement.”
Forfeit settles in my bones. I’m too tired to keep fighting back. I pull out my credit card and slide it across the counter. “Fine.”
He takes it, swipes, and hands it back. Our fingers brush and he flinches. “Lot B. Row three.”
I turn toward the door, then stop. “You know,” I say without looking at him, “false accusations have a way of coming back around.”
He has nothing left to say.
Outside, I walk past the rows of cars until I see mine, dust-streaked and dinged. Cupping my hands around my eyes, I press my face to the passenger-side window. All the usual junk is where I left it on the seat, except something is missing.
The jewelry bag with my repaired necklace. It’s gone. I lift the door handle and it’s unlocked, but I can’t remember if I had locked it before heading to the police station with Detective Yankovic. This could be a random petty theft, or something more targeted.
I glance back at the office. Ali stands in the doorway, unwaveringly watching me. I meet his stare and smile.
Despite what all of Hemlock Drive seems to want, I’m not going anywhere.