Six weeks later, Carmen drove me to Scottsdale to reclaim the Cobra. It was stored in a clean, climate-controlled facility among cars worth more than houses. James Morrison met me at the door and apologized, even though he had not been the one who stole from me.
Then I saw it. My Cobra. Deep blue paint. White stripes. Chrome shining. Whole.
I walked up and placed my hand on the fender. Cool, smooth, real.
“Hi,” I whispered.
The main keys were returned too, including my grandfather’s old brass key ring from Morris Garage in Tucson. I closed my fist around it and nearly broke.
Driving the Cobra home should have felt like victory, but it didn’t. The car was back, but the garage no longer felt safe. Patricia had not only taken a vehicle. She had taken the peace I used to feel when I worked there. Mark stood in the doorway when I parked.
“It looks incredible,” he said softly.
“Yes.”
“Can I touch it?”
“No.”
