Page 37 of Challenge Me

The woman looked back at me, still wary, but I saw dread in the tense lines of her forehead, too. “Haven’t you heard?”

My stomach sank. There was no conspiratorial hush in the question that suggested salacious gossip, so I knew that whatever was going to follow was going to be bad.

“I’m afraid I have not.”

She motioned for me to follow her through to the kitchen. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but John passed. About a year ago, now.”

There it was; the answer Ghost had spent a year tearing himself apart to find. For one selfish instant, I wished I had never pushed him toward it. It would’ve been so much easier to believe that John wanted a payout and a simpler car in his old age, something fuel-efficient, with air conditioning. Hate is easier to suffocate than grief. Grief doesn’t fade as easily; it settles like a mineral deposit over stone, polished by running water until it’s smooth enough not to hurt. Softened, but never gone.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. Do you know what happened?”

“Only what the neighbors told us.” The woman opened the refrigerator and removed a glass jug of tea. Before I could refuse, she poured some into a cup and placed it in front of me. “It was bad business; he was killed. Robbery gone bad,” she continued. “Apparently they wanted his car, but he wouldn’t give them the keys.”

Behind my ribs, something cold tightened.

“His car?” I asked, though I already knew it was true. “Someone killed him over his car? What the Hell kind of car was it?”

“I don’t know; some vintage thing.” She waved vaguely, as though all cars belonged to the same species. “The neighbor said it was very valuable. John had kept it for years.”

I lifted my glass and drank the entire thing in one gulp. The tea was so cold and sweet that it made my teeth ache, but it did nothing to numb the thought forming in my mind. How the hell was I supposed to tell Ghost the truth? He was going to blame himself forever. The guilt would eat at him worse than any rust.

“Did they catch who did it?” I asked, the grief in my voice very real, though it wasn’t for John.

“No; the cops reckoned it was gang-related,” the woman said, watching my face with growing concern. “Are you a relative?”

“Nephew,” I lied without blinking. “We lost touch a while ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” I set the empty glass down carefully. “Tell me more about the gang?”

She hesitated. Perhaps my tone had changed. I had tried to keep it gentle, but some things sharpened regardless of intention.

“I don’t know much; they were just lowlifes stealing old cars. The police warned us when we bought the house. We had to install cameras just in case.”

I wasn’t listening anymore. My mind was back with the Challenger.

I couldn’t give Ghost solace. Not truly. I couldn’t return thirty years to him, nor could I resurrect the man who had spent them at his wheel. I would never be able to make the loss smaller or provide an answer that did not hurt.

But there was one thing I could give him.

Something I understood.

I could give him revenge.

I thanked the new house owner for the drink and wished her well as I left. I heard the chain rattle back into place behind me.

Smart lady.

◆◆◆

The driveway was far too short.

I needed miles. Hours. Days, maybe. But Ghost’s silhouette was already shimmering in the driver’s seat, waiting for me. His hands rested rigidly on the wheel, and the blue glow of his eyes followed every step I took toward him.

By the time I reached the driver’s door, I still had not found a kind way to tell him.

There was no kind way.