“Could it be supplier error?”
“I called the supplier.”
“They built exactly what our prototype request specified.”
“Who issued the request?”
Marcus turned the laptop.
Internal account.
Temporary engineering authorization.
Approval code attached to a restricted prototype workflow.
The name field had been overwritten in a migration.
Charlotte stared.
“How old is the authorization?”
“Seven months.”
“So someone inside the company requested a modern connector using a failure-prone geometry documented twenty years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Marcus looked toward Aster.
“If I wanted to sabotage the car without making sabotage obvious?”
“I’d create intermittent sensor instability.”
“Engineers chase software.”
“Battery.”
“Cooling.”
“Calibration.”
“Anything except a tiny mechanical contact feature.”
Charlotte whispered:
“And if Evan hadn’t recognized the failure pattern?”
“We postpone again.”
“How many times has Aster had unexplained thermal shutdowns?”
“Four.”
Charlotte closed her eyes.
Not a prototype defect.
A pattern.
That evening, Charlotte found Evan at the rear service bay.
He was changing into his jacket.
“Do you still have any of your father’s engineering materials?”
Evan looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because the connector you found contains an old design feature from his group.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
“Old part?”
“No.”
“New part intentionally designed like an old one.”
Evan stared.
“Why would anyone do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think my father’s involved?”
“He’s been dead twenty years.”
“I mean his work.”
“Yes.”
Charlotte stepped closer.
“Did he keep notebooks?”
“Parts?”
“Anything?”
Evan hesitated.
“Some.”
“I need to see them.”
“No.”
The refusal surprised her.
“Evan.”
“You don’t get to walk into my apartment because your company lost files.”
“I’m trying to clear your father’s name.”
“Are you?”
Charlotte stopped.
Evan continued.
“You knew him.”
“You believed he stole.”
“For twenty years.”
“Now I show up, and suddenly you want boxes from my house.”
“That’s fair.”
He looked at her.
“I’m not saying no forever.”
“Then what?”
“I want to know what I’m walking into.”
Charlotte took a breath.
“So do I.”
That answer changed something.
Evan looked away.
Then said:
“Seven-thirty.”
“My daughter goes to bed around eight-thirty.”
“Don’t bring an entourage.”
Charlotte arrived alone.
Evan lived in an aging brick apartment complex fifteen minutes from the Bennett campus.
No doorman.
No garage.
No marble.
A bicycle chained to the stair railing.
Children’s chalk drawings on the sidewalk.
She parked a car that cost more than some residents’ annual salaries and immediately regretted not borrowing something less conspicuous.
Evan opened the door.
Lily stood behind him.
She stared at Charlotte.
“You’re the boss.”
Charlotte blinked.
“I am.”
“Dad says you have a fast car.”
Evan closed his eyes.
“Lily.”
“What?”
Charlotte smiled.
“It’s okay.”
Lily held up the model car.