"She wanted to get rid of it, even though it's ended up here?"
"Dude, I don't know. You know the people here, their money does the talking so you just shut up and don't ask questions," Mikey replies, shrugging. "But she paid enough to make it disappear, so Dillon handled it."
My heart starts to hammer as the pieces start sliding into place like tumblers in a lock.
"What kind of car was it?"
"A black Porsche," Mikey says without hesitation. "Looked damn near new, too. These people don't have any concept of money."
A black Porsche.
A wealthy woman trying to erase its existence.
Recent damage.
My stomach churns as the threads of logic twist tighter, forming a picture I've been trying to see for months. Sometimes the truth doesn't hit you all at once—it creeps up slowly, piece by piece, until you can't ignore it anymore.
And this truth?
It's been hiding in plain sight all along.
Before I can press further, Dillon returns, dropping a dusty cardboard box on the counter with a dull thud.
"Here you go," he says, avoiding eye contact like a man with too many secrets.
I glance at the box but don't move to touch it. My mind's already racing ahead, connecting dots I've been staring at for months.
"Thanks," I say, sliding Dillon a twenty-dollar bill. He pockets it and disappears into the shadows of the yard, the gravel crunching under his boots.
I'm about to walk out the door myself when something makes me stop. Some instinct that's saved my skin more times than I can count. I turn to Mikey one last time.
"Do you know what that woman's name was?"
Mikey looks up from the paperwork on the counter, his expression flickering with uncertainty.
"Uhh… it starts with M. Mary? Mara? The address she put down was for the Cottswold, you know that flashy manor they rent out for the summer?" His words hang in the air like smoke.
I know the one.
I also have a feeling I know exactly who the woman is now.
Back in my car, I pull out my phone to do a quick search. The results load, and my blood runs cold as the name hits me like a physical blow. The pieces slot together with a terrible clarity that makes my stomach turn.
Moira Sullivan.
In that moment, everything crystallizes. The black Porsche. The hit-and-run. The desperate cover-up. It all leads back to one person—Scott Sullivan. The coward who left Nora bleeding out on that road, and if it hadn't been for Nate finding her when he did… The thought alone makes my hands shake with rage.
And now his mother's here, doing what she's probably done his entire life—cleaning up his messes, erasing his mistakes, making sure her precious son never has to face the consequences of his actions.
The pieces fit together like a jigsaw puzzle from hell: Scott behind the wheel, probably drunk or high. And instead of calling for help, he ran. Like the worthless coward he's always been.
Now here's his mother, carefully erasing the evidence with the same precision she's probably used his whole life.
Make it disappear.
Let money solve the problem, like always.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, memories flooding back. Nate blamed himself for all of this. But it was his father. Just like in every instance in Nate's life, Scott was at the helm of the pain and suffering.
