Page 64 of Dotted Lines (Runaway 5)

She nodded. “Like garbage.”

“What about the Cadillac then? It’s not garbage.”

“Sometimes, the best cars get rescued,” I said. “That’s what happened to the Cadillac.”

“Oh. Sort of like my puppy stuffy that got ripped but Mom fixed it so we didn’t have to throw it away.”

I grinned. “Exactly.”

August snatched a chip from the basket, content with the explanation. His curiosity was infectious, but the questions I wanted answers to weren’t ones I could ask today. Mostly, I wanted to know about his father. Yesterday’s attempt to broach the subject had backfired.

“Did you tell her about the junkyard?” Holly nudged my elbow.

“No. It, uh, didn’t come up yesterday.”

Holly thought the junkyard was an interesting piece of my history. Like most people, unless they’d lived it, she didn’t realize how hard it had been. How close I’d been to breaking so many times.

Maybe it was my fault for not explaining it to her. But why would I want to rehash the struggles? She’d gotten the glossed-over version of the past. To her, it had sounded like an adventure. Again, probably my fault for not painting it in a dirty, rust-tinged light.

That was part of why talking with Clara had been so easy yesterday. She understood. She’d always understood.

“What about the junkyard?” Clara asked.

Before I could answer, the waitress appeared with our meals. Even with the few minutes it took to get August settled with his quesadilla, when Clara looked at me for an answer, I still hadn’t figured out exactly how to say it.

“The junkyard is . . . well, it’s mine.”

“Yours?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I own it.”

“Did you buy it?” She set down her fork. “When you lived in Temecula?”

“No, I didn’t buy it.” I gave her a sad smile. “Lou left it to me. In his will.”

“Oh.” Her gaze dropped.

“Who’s Lou?” August asked, his cheeks bulging with food.

“An old friend.” Clara touched his hair, then focused on her plate. Though her fork only poked at her enchiladas.

“Are we gonna see him too?”

She shook her head. “No, bud. He . . . died.”

“Oh.” August looked down. “How?”

“In his sleep,” I answered. “Surrounded by his collections.”

The sadness in Clara’s eyes broke my heart. “Did you see him often?”

“No. You know Lou.”

“Yeah.”

Lou didn’t like visitors, even me. The few times I’d visited, I’d made sure to call ahead first. I’d gone in the morning. And only on the last visit had he actually invited me inside his shac

k.