I closed my eyes. She said she would come after her shift if I wanted her there. I told her I did. Saying it felt harder than anything I'd done the previous day. It meant admitting I was still somebody's child, even though I had spent six months pretending I needed to be everybody's adult.
Grip called at six forty-seven. He asked whether I'd slept, and I told him a transparent lie. He didn't waste time arguing about it. Jack was sending a man named Decker to the shop at nine. He would arrive as an ordinary customer needing a carburetor adjustment and remain nearby until the threat situation was clearer.
"Open normal hours," Grip said. "Keep working if you can. Tell the police if anything happens, and don't go chasing suspicious vehicles."
"What's happening with Delgado?"
"He's speaking with an attorney. The documents have been copied and preserved. We're trying to confirm which statements can be supported independently."
"And Carver?"
There was a pause. "A developer. Maybe more than that. We're checking."
At seven thirty I lifted the bay door. The sun was already bright enough to hurt my eyes. I put on Hector's battered radio and listened to a station that alternated old country songs with advertisements for roofing companies and used cars. It was comforting to hear the city pretending nothing unusual had happened.
Decker arrived at eight fifty-two on a black Softail. He was compact, maybe forty, with a trimmed beard and the stillness of someone who did not need to announce that he was observant. He gave me a handshake and described a carburetor hesitation so minor I doubted it needed an adjustment. I understood the arrangement.
"Jack said you might have time today," he told me.
"Bring it in."
He sat on the vinyl stool by the counter while I checked the bike. He didn't pretend to be interested in my work, but he didn't make obvious security gestures, either. He watched the street occasionally, then returned to his phone. Having another person in the room changed my breathing in ways I hadn't realized were possible.
At nine forty a gray Accord passed slowly enough that the driver could have counted the wrenches on my wall. Three minutes later it returned from the other direction. Decker noted the time and description without moving to the doorway.
"You know them?" he asked.
"No."
"Then we don't assume anything. Could be nothing. We keep working."
I was grateful for the wording. The previous night had left me ready to see a threat in every pair of headlights, and I didn't want fear to become a substitute for evidence. The car made a third pass at ten and paused near the closed upholstery warehouse before driving away.
At ten fifteen the shop phone rang. I answered with the business name, trying to sound like someone who had appointments rather than an overdue account and a threatening text.
"You the kid who worked on Henderson's red Knucklehead?" a man asked.
"I work on a lot of bikes. What can I help you with?"