Chapter Two
The bay doors were open.
Sadie killed the engine of her pickup and sat in the Canton street, staring at her garage like it belonged to someone else.
She'd locked those doors last night. Checked them twice, the way she'd checked them every night since Dominic Fisk walked in with his cash and his smile and his business proposition.
She grabbed the tire iron from under her seat and stepped out into the gray morning.
The smell hit her first. Motor oil—gallons of it—pooled across the concrete floor like black blood.
Her tool chest lay on its side, wrenches and sockets scattered across the bay like someone had kicked it over for fun.
The diagnostic scanner her uncle had saved six months to buy was in pieces against the far wall.
And on the lift, spray-painted in block letters that dripped like wounds:
LAST CHANCE
Sadie's grip tightened on the tire iron until her knuckles ached.
Two weeks. That's how long it had been since Fisk showed up in his forgettable sedan with his forgettable face, offering cash for "occasional use" of her bays. Nothing illegal, he'd said. Just need a place to do some work. Cars in, cars out, nobody asks questions.
She'd told him exactly what she thought of men who wanted to rent space for work they wouldn't describe. Told him her uncle built forty years of reputation in this shop and she wasn't about to piss on it for some stranger's dirty money.
Fisk had smiled. Polite. Patient. Like a man who'd heard no before and knew how to turn it into yes.
She'd installed cameras the next day. Four of them, covering every angle of the lot.
They hung from their mounts now, smashed to plastic and wire.
"Jesus, Sadie."
Walt Kowalczyk stood in the bay door, his morning coffee frozen halfway to his mouth. He'd been bringing his Buick to Morrow's since before Sadie was born—back when her uncle Mickey ran the place and she was just the kid handing him wrenches.
"Don't." She didn't look at him. "Don't say anything."
More regulars drifted in as the morning wore on.
Carmen from the nail salon next door. Eddie Park, whose delivery van Sadie had kept running for three years past its expiration date.
Old Mrs. Whitfield, who'd taught Sadie's uncle in high school and still drove the Cadillac he'd maintained for her since 1987.
They helped without being asked. Carmen brought trash bags and paper towels. Eddie righted the tool chest while Walt collected the scattered wrenches. Mrs. Whitfield sat in the corner and supervised, which was her way of helping.
Nobody asked what happened.
Nobody made eye contact when Sadie asked if they'd seen unfamiliar cars in the alley.
"Look," Walt finally said, setting the last socket back in its drawer. "Maybe you should call the cops. File a report. Insurance, you know?"
"Insurance doesn't cover this."
"Then maybe..." He trailed off, glancing at the spray-painted threat like it might bite him. "Maybe you should think about what they want."
Sadie stopped scrubbing oil from the concrete and stood up. Slowly.
"What they want," she said, "is my garage.
My uncle's name. Forty years of trust he built with every person in this neighborhood.
" She threw the rag into the bucket hard enough to splash black water across the floor.
"What they want is to turn Morrow's into a chop shop for stolen cars. And you think I should think about it?"
Walt raised his hands. "I'm just saying—"
"I know what you're saying." She softened, because Walt was a good man and scared men said stupid things. "Thank you for helping. All of you. But I'm not giving them anything."
They left eventually. Carmen with a worried look over her shoulder. Eddie with a promise to bring lunch later. Mrs. Whitfield with a pat on Sadie's oil-stained hand and a murmured your uncle would be proud.
Would he?
Mickey Morrow had been a stubborn bastard too. Raised her in this garage after her mother took off, taught her to diagnose by sound and fix by feel. Handed her a wrench when she was seven and told her if she was going to live here, she was going to work.
She'd rebuilt her first engine at fourteen. A '69 Camaro that some weekend warrior had given up on. Mickey stood over her shoulder, not helping, just watching, and when she turned the key and that engine roared to life, he'd smiled like she'd just graduated medical school.
This shop is family, he'd told her. Only family that never leaves.
Mickey died four years ago. Heart attack, middle of a Tuesday, underneath a Honda he'd been working on for thirty years' worth of customers. Sadie had been the one to find him, the creeper still under his back, his hands still holding the wrench.
She'd inherited everything. The shop. The tools. The customers who trusted the Morrow name.
And now some car thief wanted to take it from her.
Sadie spent the afternoon salvaging what she could. The diagnostic scanner was dead—three thousand dollars she didn't have to replace it. Most of the hand tools were fine, just scattered. The lift would need a deep cleaning, but the hydraulics still worked.
The Civic on the lift was a regular's—Mrs. Patterson, who taught second grade at the elementary school down the block. Simple brake job. Sadie had promised it back by Thursday, and Sadie Morrow kept her promises.
She worked until dark, alone except for the radio and the familiar sounds of Canton outside. Cars passing. People walking home from the waterfront bars. The distant rumble of a motorcycle that made her look up, just for a second, before it faded.
At nine o'clock, she locked the bay doors. Checked them twice. Set the tire iron behind the counter where she could reach it fast.
The note was still on the wall. She'd thought about painting over it, but something stopped her. Evidence, maybe. Or a reminder.
Last chance.
Sadie had never been good at taking chances. She'd been good at working. At fixing things. At being the toughest person in any room full of men who thought a female mechanic was a cute novelty.
But this wasn't a lowballing customer or a handsy creep who needed his fingers threatened. This was organized. Professional. The kind of problem that didn't go away because you were stubborn.
She sat on the stool behind her counter and stared at the ruined shop, trying to think of options that didn't exist.
Call the cops? They'd file a report and do nothing. Probably gang-related, they'd say. We'll look into it. The look in their eyes would say sell the shop and move somewhere safer.
Hire security? With what money? The diagnostic scanner alone had wiped out her emergency fund.
Give in? Let them use her bays, take their money, pretend she didn't know what was happening in the back lot?
She'd rather burn the place down herself.
The thought came unbidden, surfacing from memories she'd almost forgotten. Mickey, sitting at this same counter after closing, sharing beers with men who rode motorcycles and laughed too loud and called him brother even though he'd never worn a patch.
You ever have trouble, Mickey told her once, real trouble, not the kind cops handle—there's a bar in Fell's Point. Flynn's. You tell them you're Morrow's niece. They'll remember.
She'd been sixteen. Hadn't understood what he meant.
She was thirty now, and she was starting to.
Sadie pulled out her phone and searched for Flynn's Bar, Fell's Point. The website was bare-bones—hours, address, a photo of a brick building on a cobblestone street. The kind of place that didn't need to advertise because the right people already knew where it was.
Her uncle had never explained his connection to those men. Never told her what he'd done for them, or what they'd done for him. But she remembered the way they'd looked at her when she was a kid—assessing, respectful, like she was worth something because Mickey Morrow said she was.
They'll remember.
Sadie locked her phone and stared at the threat painted on her wall.
She'd tried stubborn. She'd tried cameras and tire irons and refusing to be scared.
Tomorrow, she'd try something else.