Reese watched her return to the bike. Something about her answer reminded him of a man who had once stood in the same place arguing that an elderly customer's engine was worth repairing even if the shop made very little profit doing it. He knew the memory was connected to Willa's father, although he had not yet realized how closely. He carried the papers back to his office and signed the corrected letters that evening.
The next day an older customer telephoned to say no mechanic had ever sent him a refund he had not requested. He said he appreciated it and that he had already told his neighbor. By Friday two more customers had called to thank the shop for being honest. Willa heard the calls from the next room and pretended to be deeply occupied with a torque wrench. The praise embarrassed her, partly because she thought the refund was obvious and partly because she had spent months in places where pointing out a discrepancy had made people angry instead of grateful.
Reese took her aside after work. "I want you involved in intake and final checks as well as repairs," he said. "We need somebody who sees systems and not just individual machines."
"I've only been here two weeks."
"That's not an argument against the work you've done." He handed her a printed responsibilities sheet so she could see exactly what he was asking, and told her to read it before agreeing. "You won't have to do it without training. I need you to understand that."
Willa accepted the paper with an expression Reese had begun to recognize. It appeared whenever somebody offered her a responsibility that assumed she would still be around to fulfill it. She would go very still, read the words carefully, then nod as if the paper were an unexpected piece of evidence in a case she had long believed was already lost.
Outside the shop, the November weather turned steadily colder. The first light snow fell and melted along the curb before noon, leaving the salt-stained pavement dark and shining. Willa walked home in a coat Fig had found in the club's winter clothing donation bin, a heavy green one that fit her shoulders properly. She had washed the old oversized barn coat, folded it carefully, and put it on the shelf above her bed. She could not bring herself to throw away the coat that had gotten her through the rain.
She had not heard from Harlon Neil in four months. That should have been reassuring, but every quiet day made her more certain that he was waiting for the moment she stopped looking over her shoulder. The last time she had seen him in person, he had stood in the office of her father's old shop beneath the framed photograph of Grant receiving a local business award. He had told her the transfer documents were final, that the court would not undo a valid partnership agreement, and that continuing to accuse him would only damage her father's reputation.