Page 156 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"You helped me get justice for my dead parents." Her eyes hold mine, and for a moment I see the sixteen-year-old girl who lost everything. "Let me help you reconcile with your living ones.I was sixteen when I lost mine. You still have yours. Don't waste what I'll never have again."

Jesus. When she puts it like that...

The comparison twists something sharp in my ribs. "They think I killed their favorite son."

"Tommy wasn't their son."

"Might as well have been. He was at our house more than his own."

She pulls out her phone. "What's the shop address?"

"Why?"

"Because you're going to be too busy dealing with your emotions to navigate." She types as I recite the address, fingers flying across the screen. "Good. Twenty minutes from here."

Twenty minutes until I face them. Twenty minutes to figure out what to say after three years of silence.

We reach the car, and before I can move toward the driver's side, she holds out her hand. "Keys."

"What?"

"Give me your keys. Your hands are shaking."

I look down. She's right. My fingers tremble like I've been mainlining caffeine for hours.

Pathetic. Can't even control my own hands.

"Then we give them their actual son back." She plucks the keys from my palm before I can argue.

Their actual son. Like I'm someone worth returning to them instead of the reminder of everything they lost.

Twenty minutes later, we're pulling into the familiar neighborhood. Mira drives the Mustang like she's been doing it for years, smooth and controlled while I sit in the passenger seat trying not to hyperventilate.

Same streets. Same houses. Same everything except us.

The streets haven't changed. Same cracked sidewalks where Tommy and I learned to ollie. Same corner store where we'd buyenergy drinks before midnight races. Same everything except the two boys who owned these streets are gone—one dead, one might as well be.

"Tommy and I built a ramp in that parking lot." The words slip out as we pass a strip mall, my finger shaking as I point. "Spent three days dragging plywood and cinder blocks around. Launched his dirt bike clear over two shopping carts."

"How old were you?"

"Fourteen. Maybe fifteen." My palms are sweating. I wipe them on my jeans, but they're damp again in seconds. "His mom found out and grounded him for a month. Mine just asked if we cleaned up after ourselves."

Simpler times. Before everything went to shit.

Mira glances at me, those sharp eyes taking in every tell—the bouncing leg, the fingers drumming Tommy's date, the way I keep tugging at my seatbelt like it's too tight.

"Tell me about the last time you saw them."

The fight. The ultimatum. The door slamming.

"Dad said I was selfish. Mom cried. I left." Each word feels like swallowing glass. "Not my finest moment."

"Why that day specifically?"

"They wanted me to take over the shop. Stop the 'driving instructor' work."

She merges onto the next street, following the GPS with precision. "They don't know what you really do?"