Page 6

Stay busy. Stay Clara.

The socket tray shifts slightly on the bench. I nudge it straight with my wrist, then reach for a wrench. It slips from my grip.

My hand’s shaking.

I flex my fingers once, hard, then pick it up again. This time, steady. I press my thumb over the knurling. Hold. Release. Reset.

It wasn’t supposed to be him. Not here. Not that fast.

I breathe in through my nose, roll my neck once, and keep my eyes on the work. The transmission’s halfway out. I have the car up on jack stands, left side angled to give easier access. Drip pan under the housing, catching residual fluid from the lines I detached earlier. Should be simple. Standard pull, open inspection, replace seals, replace solenoids, reassemble. No need to think beyond that.

But it plays in my head anyway—him stepping out of the dark, the way he moved, the blade, the blood. Fast. Efficient. Precise.

There’s a reason I recognized Rocco before he recognized me.

And now that he’s back? The timeline’s tight.

I reach for the pry bar and set it next to the torque wrench. Still too clean.

The garage is half-lit, low and steady. Two lamps over the main bay, one bulb flickering in the corner, but holding on. The radio’s on—low Spanish guitar, crackling through the same old speaker Sal never replaces. Outside, rain’s barely a whisper now. The last of last night’s storm.

I haven’t slept. Not really. Three hours, maybe. But I showed up on time, unlocked the back, and started inventory like nothing happened. Clara can’t afford a personal day.

The smell of oil keeps me grounded. It gets into your skin, under your nails, no matter how hard you scrub. Most people hate it. I prefer it to cologne, perfume, or any trace of the old life. Oil and metal. At least they’re honest.

I’m elbow-deep under the frame when I hear the door creak open. A slow drag of hinges that should’ve been oiled months ago. Sal’s boots scrape across the concrete.

“Clara,” he says, already puffing.

I don’t look up. “Morning, Sal.”

“It’s six.”

“Still feels like morning.”

He exhales through his teeth and steps closer, the smell of cigar smoke settling in before he does. I keep my hands inside the housing, adjusting the alignment ring. Don’t give him a reason to study my face.

“You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Customer. Late night,” I say, keeping my eyes on the gasket seal. “One of yours.”

He grunts. “Yeah, I heard.” Another puff. “He’s crew.”

I finally glance at him. “You checking in or warning me?”

“I’m saying he’s not regular foot traffic. You be careful around that one.”

I wipe my hands off on the rag and fold it over the edge of the bench. “I can handle a Ferrano transmission, Sal.”

He smirks. Then remembers who I’m supposed to be, and dials it back. “Good,” he says instead. “Don’t need more mess on this lot.”

He leaves it there. Doesn’t ask what I mean by “late night.” Doesn’t ask why I came in early or why I haven’t touched my coffee. He just huffs, takes another puff from the cigar, and walks off toward the office.

I wait until the door closes behind him.

Then I breathe.

Back to the tray. Back to Clara. The mask stays on better when my hands are moving.