Page 5 of Enzo (Redcars #1)

FIVE

Robbie

The room was barely more than a storage closet—a converted filing room carved out of the garage space, with walls of cold sheetrock and one flickering strip light buzzing overhead, clogged with the bodies of dead insects, but it was mine.

I shifted the mattress to the cot inch by inch, muscles screaming with each movement. The pain was evil—sharp, unforgiving—it stole the air from my lungs and made my vision blur. But I kept going. I had to. Sweat clung to my skin by the time I got the mattress into place, and I collapsed onto it, gasping, knife clutched in one hand. My fingers cramped around the hilt. That too, was mine.

Above me, the ceiling offered no comfort—just more sheetrock, cracked in places, water-stained and old. The room reeked of oil and mechanical fumes, but there was no rot, no mildew, no damp earth. I could live with that. I knew this air. I understood it. It made sense in a world that hadn’t in a long time.

I crawled to the door, dragging my battered body with me. Pain flared in every joint, every breath. I cracked it open to see if anything had been left. My meds were there. A bottle of water. A plate with a cold slice of pizza, a cookie, and a sad-looking carrot. I reached out, snagged it all in one go, and pulled it back into the room.

The cookie was too sweet. I managed one bite before it turned to glue in my mouth. I couldn’t touch the pizza. Couldn’t think about the carrot. I shoved the plate back outside, shame and fury churning in my stomach. The memory of being denied food lingered. It had been one of their favorite punishments—twisting the mind as much as it weakened the body.

“You need to eat,” came the voice, and I froze.

I gripped the knife and jabbed it toward the door.

Peeking out, I saw him—Enzo. Leaning against the wall outside like he wasn’t waiting.

“Go away,” I hissed.

“You need to eat.”

“I can’t, okay? I can’t!”

I wanted to scream at him, to beg him to leave me the hell alone. But I didn’t. I shut the door and curled up on the mattress.

The next time I opened it for meds, something had changed. A mug. One of those keep-warm ones. Soup. Tomato, I think. A few small crackers on the side. My stomach cramped at the smell, and still, I forced myself to try. A sip. Another. A nibble of a cracker.

There was a note, taped to the mug. We can get you any soup you want. Just write it here .

There was a tiny arrow pointing to a blank space.

I stared at it for a long time before scratching out one word: vegetable . I didn’t expect anything. Tricks were easy. Promises were easier to break.

Later, I needed the bathroom. I took the knife. Crawled up the stairs. Every step was agony. My lungs burned. At the top, the one called Jamie stood back, arms folded, eyes anywhere but on me. He didn’t speak or move—he gave me space

I got to the bathroom. Didn’t cry. Almost did.

The shower was there, calling to me—I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had hot water. I ignored it. The toilet was all I could manage.

I noticed another sign.

For Robbie , it said, with more arrows. Same handwriting. Next to it, a pile—washbag, deodorant, wet wipes, toothbrush, toothpaste. I stared for a long time.

My throat closed. I could’ve cried. I brushed my teeth, gagging. The soup came up. Not much of it. Enough to sting. I tried the deodorant, but my hands were too unsteady. Settled for a wipe. One. Dragged it over my arms, under my shirt. Stared into the mirror.

Who was I? Who did Enzo see when he looked at me? Who did any of them see?

A ghost. A wreck. Nothing.

Gaunt, bruised, with stitches at my temple and one eye swollen near shut. My eyes—Christ, my eyes. One pale blue, one a deep brown. Heterochromia. My blessing, John called it. Like all the things that made him do awful things to me. He used to say it wasn’t his fault and it was all on me with my mismatched eyes , the way I remembered too much. Said I wasn’t right. Said it made me his to use because I wasn’t fit to…

“Stop,” I said on repeat, nothing more than a whisper

I was wrong, inside and out.

I tucked the wipes into my waistband and made my way downstairs again, one slow descent on my ass made difficult by carrying the huge-ass knife. Still, if I fell on it, then no one could hurt me anymore.

Stop .

Jamie had gone from his place at the top of the stairs, but Enzo was at the bottom. Pretending to work. Not watching. Not speaking.

But when I reached the bottom and we locked eyes, he gave me a single nod.

I didn’t know what it meant. But I nodded back.

Then I shut the door behind me. Back in my room. Back in my air. Knife beside me. Heart still racing.

There were piles of paperwork in the corner of the room, and three big filing cabinets that looked as if they hadn’t been organized since the dawn of time. I couldn’t help myself—I investigated. Orders for parts, flyers, quotes, invoices. So much mess, paper everywhere, some yellowed with age, others printed fresh. It was chaos.

I picked through a stack, letting my fingers run over the top sheet. There was an invoice for a crankshaft sensor—whatever that was—and after a few minutes of flipping through nearby papers, I found a matching quote for the same part. I lined them up, matching numbers, dates, and set them aside together, separate from the disarray. One small thing that made sense. One puzzle solved. Just a little order in the noise. There was a pile of receipts for accounts, but I couldn’t find one matching a payment to the quote and the part order. Maybe they didn’t keep all their paperwork in here? Or perhaps the amount was outstanding?

The meds made everything molasses-slow. I shoved the chair up and under the handle of the door—just in case—not caring if I died in here and people couldn’t get in to retrieve my body. Maybe this could be a cool place to decay?

I curled up on my bed, pulling a blanket over me, pain sliding away, and all I could do was wonder what a crankshaft sensor was.

I woke in pain. Sweating. Cramping. The nightmare ripping the air from my lungs, locking every muscle tight. I heaved. Chest jerking. I rolled to my side. Nothing.

Empty.

Sick, but hollow. The kind of pain you can’t throw up.

I curled in on myself. Smaller. Tighter. Breath catching on a sob I didn’t remember starting.

And then—tears.

Somewhere in the gasps, I realized I was crying.

Then came the knock.

“Robbie?”

Enzo.

His voice was muffled but urgent. “Open the door, Robbie.”

He was trying the handle now. My name again, firmer this time. “Are you okay? I heard you scream. Robbie!”

I wanted to tell him to go away. I wanted to scream no. But something inside me broke open. He needed to see me. And fuck, I needed to see another human. Someone real.

“I’m okay,” I croaked, dragging myself to the door. “I’m coming.”

The chair was jammed under the handle, and I couldn’t get it free. My hands shook too badly, my body trembling with the leftover horror of whatever the nightmare had been. Tears stung hot and fast, not fear, but frustration at how goddamn weak I was.

“Come on,” I snapped at the chair, yanking it. It scraped, my whole arm screaming, but finally, it gave. I stumbled back, grabbed the knife, and cracked the door open an inch.

Enzo was way back from the door, hands visible, posture loose and unthreatening.

“I’m okay,” I said again, quieter now. “It was a nightmare.”

His eyes softened a fraction. Not sad with pity or wide with anger. Just…something steady I couldn’t understand, something like compassion.

“Can I do anything to help you?” he said, unmoving. “I want to help.”

I tugged in the new tray. There was more soup with a V on the top, which I assumed meant it was vegetable, a new note I would read later, more crackers, more water, and a banana chopped into tiny pieces that had started to turn brown at the edges. I love bananas, so soft and squishy, so sweet. Fuck, I hope I can keep it down .

“What is a crankshaft sensor?” I asked after a pause.

“A what now?” he frowned and moved closer, his head tilted as if he hadn’t heard me correctly.

“A crankshaft sensor, what is it?”

Enzo blinked, then scratched the back of his neck. “Uh… it’s this sensor that tracks how fast the crankshaft is spinning. It helps the engine control the timing of the spark plugs and fuel injection. Without it, the car won’t know when to fire—might not even start.”

He was unsure, so I pressed, “And what does the crankshaft do?”

“It… um… it converts the up and down movement of the pistons into rotation,” Enzo said, and his hands started moving like he was trying to sculpt the explanation out of thin air. He raised both fists in front of him, then pumped them up and down in quick succession. “So the pistons move like this—up and down—right? That’s what happens inside the engine cylinders.”

Then he rotated one hand in a slow circle. “The crankshaft takes that and turns it into this—circular motion. That’s what actually drives the car. The sensor tracks all that movement so the computer knows when to fire the spark plugs and add fuel. Timing’s everything.”

He paused and gave me an uncertain look as if maybe it had all come out wrong. “I mean, I know what it does when I fix it. I’m not always great at explaining the tech stuff.

I nodded, then asked, “So the sensor monitors that rotation?”

“Yeah. Pretty much. It’s like the engine’s um… like its brain, and it needs that info to keep everything timed right.”

I turned back to the papers I’d stacked. “Did you get paid for it?”

Enzo blinked. “What?”

“Quote 765/2,” I said, tapping the top sheet. “And a parts order for a crankshaft sensor. Did you get paid for the work?” I tossed the papers I’d found outside the door, and he picked them up, scanning the documents, brows drawing together.

“I have no idea, that’s a Logan thing.”

“You should check,” I said. “I can’t find the payment anywhere—no invoice match, no receipt, nothing.”

“What do you mean?” He took another step closer. “I don’t understand?—”

I slammed the door shut, shoved the chair under the handle, and was done with talking again.

He’d come too close and he was twice the size of me, tattooed, hard, and he could hurt me way worse than John ever did. They all could.

I swallowed some soup—it was softer, gentler, creamier. The warmth soothed my throat, and the crackers didn’t hurt as much to swallow this time. The note taped to the tray had a list with little boxes, asking me for muffin choices and candy preferences. Options. As if I mattered. There were also vitamins lined up like tiny soldiers and a line scrawled under them: You should take these.

I stared at them for a long time. They could be a trick. A new kind of poison, something slow. But I’d already been taking the pain meds, and they hadn’t hurt me. So what was different about this? What made this the moment I questioned it?

Eventually, I wrote a new soup option: chicken. Simple. Safe. Familiar.

Then my eyes caught on the mess of papers again, and a wave of irritation swept through me. Everything was chaos, loose sheets scattered, some fluttering off the edge of the desk when I moved. I needed to do something about it.

There was something I needed really bad.

A stapler.