The last project they started together was a 1969 Camaro SS. Hank found the shell at a salvage auction. Rusted through, no engine, no interior, just a frame and a dream. They spent two years on it. Hank handled the body, Fletcher handled the powertrain.
They worked side by side every weekend. Radio playing Motown, grease on their hands, cold Pepsi on the workbench.
Then Hank got the diagnosis. Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. Six weeks from the doctor's office to the funeral home. Fletcher was 17.
The Camaro sat unfinished in the garage. The tools stayed on the pegboard. The radio stayed off. For six months Fletcher didn't touch an engine. He went to school, came home, sat in the empty garage and stared at the Camaro's open hood like it was a grave.
Then one night, somewhere around 3:00 in the morning, he heard it. A sound coming from the engine bay. Not a real sound. A memory. His grandfather's voice.
"What do you hear?" Fletcher picked up a wrench. And he got back to work.
He had been working on the Camaro ever since. Two years of slow progress, buying parts when he could afford them, improvising when he couldn't. The turbo actuator was the last piece he needed to bring the engine to life. The one part he couldn't fabricate in a home garage. That's why he walked into Whitmore Motors on a Tuesday afternoon with $20 and grease under his fingernails.
Not to prove anything. Not to impress anyone. Just to finish what his grandfather started. He never expected to find a $2 million car with a problem he had already solved a hundred times in his head.
Victoria opened her mouth to respond, but the front doors swung open first.
Eleanor Ashford walked in like she owned the building. Silver hair swept back. A charcoal cashmere coat over a white silk blouse. No jewelry except a single watch. A Patek Philippe that cost more than the McLaren in the corner.
She was 71 years old and moved like a woman who had never once waited for permission to enter a room. Two things happened at the same time. Victoria's face shifted from fury to fear. And every employee in the showroom stood up straighter.
Eleanor Ashford was not just a client. She was the client. Four Paganis, two Bugattis, a Koenigsegg Jesko. Her late husband, Richard Ashford, had built one of the largest private equity firms in the Midwest. When he died, Eleanor didn't sell.
She expanded. The Ashford Trust now managed north of $2 billion. And Eleanor's personal car collection, 46 vehicles insured for over $90 million, was one of the most respected in the world. She walked past the reception desk without stopping, past the lounge, past the champagne, straight to the service bay window. She looked at the Pagani, then at Chad, then at Todd, then at Victoria.
"Is my car running?" Victoria smoothed her blazer. "Mrs. Ashford, we're making excellent progress."
"Is it running? Yes or no?" "Not yet, but our team—"