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“Callie—”

“No.” She looks at me. “You put him on speaker so I could hear this. Let me hear it.”

Fuck. She's right.

“Tell her.”

There's a beat of silence. Then Bishop says, “Evan Calder.”

She goes still.

“You know him?” I ask her.

“I know of him.”

“How?”

“Smoke mentioned him once.” Her brows pull together. “Maybe twice. He had some kind of—” She stops. “Wait. What kind of vehicle?”

“1993 Ford Mustang. Red,” Bishop says.

“A GT convertible?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God. Yeah. Smoke worked on that car.”

Every muscle in my body tightens. “You're sure?”

“Yes. He sent me a picture.”

I stare at her.

“What happened to the owner?” Callie asks.

Silence.

I already know she won’t like the answer.

“He's dead,” Bishop says.

Callie's face loses some of its color. “Since when?”

“Six weeks.”

“How?”

“Murdered.”

Thank fuck he didn’t go into detail.

“You think he left something in the car.”

“Or at the shop,” I say.

Bishop's quiet for a second. “That's what we need to find out.”

Callie reaches for her phone.