Page 157 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"They think I teach rich assholes how to race cars safely." The irony tastes bitter. "Which isn't entirely wrong, I guess. Just missing a few details about tactical driving and why the rich assholes have people trying to kill them."

If they knew the truth, they'd probably have heart attacks.

The RYDER AUTO REPAIR sign appears ahead, red letters against white aluminum siding that Dad repainted last year from the looks of it. Three service bays, all occupied. A Honda onthe lift, a Ford getting new brakes, a BMW with its hood up. Business looks good.

They're doing fine without me. Probably better.

The smell hits me through the open window—motor oil and hot metal, rubber and that specific degreaser Dad's used since 1987. My whole childhood wrapped in automotive chemicals.

My chest tightens. "I can't do this."

"Yes you can."

"They hate me, Mira."

She pulls into the customer parking lot, right next to Dad's 1987 Chevy. Same spot he's parked it every day for the last twenty years, paint fading but engine purring because he rebuilds it every winter like meditation.

His baby. Unlike his actual son, that truck never disappoints him.

"They're terrified of losing you."

I stare at her. "How could you possibly—"

"Because when you got shot last month, I wanted to burn down the world." Her voice stays calm, but her knuckles are white on the steering wheel. "And I've only known you three months. They've loved you for thirty years."

She wanted to burn down the world. For me.

She turns off the engine, meets my eyes directly. "They're going to cry."

"My mom doesn't cry."

"She will today."

Before I can argue, she's out of the car. I follow on autopilot, legs feeling like they belong to someone else.

This is really happening. After three years, I'm about to walk through that door.

The threshold looms ahead—office door with a bell that's been there since I was six, the paint worn where thousands of hands have pushed it open. Through the window, Mom's visibleat her desk, gray hair twisted up and held with a pencil, reading glasses perched on her nose like they've grown there. Invoice papers spread across the surface, coffee mug with "World's Best Mom" that I made in third grade still holding her pens.

She kept it. After everything, she kept my stupid third-grade art project.

I stop at the door. Can't move. The familiar sounds wash over me—impact wrench from the bay, compressor cycling, classic rock from the radio Dad's had since the 90s.

Three years. Three goddamn years and I'm frozen like a kid who broke something.

Mira doesn't wait. Opens the door herself.

The bell chimes—same bright ding that announced every skinned knee, every report card, every triumph and disaster of my childhood.

Mom looks up. "Can I help—"

Her eyes find mine. "Jackson?"

Invoice papers scatter as she stands, chair rolling backward into the file cabinet with a bang.

She looks older. Smaller. When did her hair go completely gray?

Dad appears from the service bay, wiping hands on a shop rag that's more grease than fabric. "Marie, what's wrong?"