“How bad?” Coulter asked.
She sat behind the office desk.
“Do you want comforting or accurate?”
“Accurate.”
“Bad.”
“How bad?”
“The shop isn’t insolvent, but it’s disorganized enough to look insolvent.”
Coulter frowned.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does to a bank.”
She showed him.
Past-due invoice.
Irregular deposits.
Supplier balances.
Loan payment history.
Uncollected receivables.
Tax documents filed inconsistently.
“You have work,” she said. “You have customers. You have value. But none of that matters if your records make it look like money enters this building and disappears.”
“It doesn’t disappear.”
“I know.”
“The bank doesn’t.”
That was the first time Coulter seemed frightened.
Not angry.
Frightened.
He sat heavily in the chair.
“My father built this place.”
“I know.”
“I promised my wife I wouldn’t lose it.”
Adeline looked toward the wrench on the wall.
The ring remained there.
“She knew things were getting bad?”
“She knew everything.”
His voice softened.
“She wanted me to sell before she got sick.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I thought selling meant failing.”
“And now?”
Coulter stared at the floor.
“Now I think losing it because I was too stubborn to ask for help would be worse.”
Adeline nodded.
“Then we don’t lose it.”
He looked up.
The sentence surprised both of them.
We.
Not you.
Not the shop.
We.
Neither acknowledged it.
That was when Miles Donovan appeared.
His truck was spotless.
That alone made Coulter suspicious.
The black pickup rolled into the lot on a clear afternoon and parked beside a customer’s mud-covered ranch truck.
Miles stepped out wearing polished boots, pressed jeans, a fitted jacket, and the confidence of someone accustomed to buying solutions instead of building them.
He owned four repair shops around the state.
A fifth location was under construction.
His model was efficient.
Standardized labor times.
Centralized purchasing.
Aggressive advertising.
He acquired small independent garages, closed those that underperformed, and moved customers into larger regional centers.
There was nothing inherently wrong with the strategy.
Adeline understood that.
What bothered her was how Miles looked around Briggs Auto Repair.
Not like a visitor.
Like an appraiser.
He ran one finger along the parts counter.
“Old place.”
Coulter remained near the lift.
“Older than you.”
Miles smiled.
“I like that.”
“No, you don’t.”
The smile widened.
“I like history when it still makes money.”
He produced a folded agreement.
“I’ll save us both time.”
Coulter did not move.
Miles placed the document on the counter.
“Cash purchase. Property, equipment, customer records, trade name.”
“How much?”
Adeline asked before Coulter could.
Miles looked at her.
“And you are?”
“Adeline Monroe.”
“Office?”
“Operations.”
Coulter glanced at her.
It was the first time she had ever described herself that way.
Miles nodded.
“I know the shop’s numbers roughly.”
“No,” Adeline said. “You know what public filings tell you.”
Something in his expression sharpened.
He quoted his offer.