Page 7 of Furious

I smirk, desperately wishing I was behind the wheel of anything besides this booger-green Subaru. “I think you meant to say charming. And yes, I’m always this charming.”

The girl rolls her eyes so hard, I’m certain she’s going to strain her optic nerve or something. “I’m kind of in a rush here. Can you just answer my questions? Please?”

Her voice carries an edge of real pleading and suddenly I want to buy her coffee, not keep teasing her. “I can do that, but first I have to get this car parked. Meet me inside and we can talk?” I offer the words like an olive branch, hoping she sees them for that.

“Fine.” The girl storms toward the open garage doors before I can say anything else.

“Real smooth, Jo. Such cool-girl energy,” I mutter to myself as I put the Subaru in Drive and pull away. “This is why you’re single.”

Exactly one minute later, I’ve parked the Subaru inside and grabbed my picture of Jamie Chadwick. The girl in the pink shirt sits in Jolene’s office, arms crossed, frowning at a tin sign on the wall.

Because she’s cute even though she’s grumpy and because I’m trying to think of what to say to her—I’ve literally not flirted with anyone since we moved to Dell’s Hollow, and talking to a cute, oil-streaked girl does strange things to my insides—I sit in the car for a few seconds longer than necessary.

“She’s just a customer,” I say to myself as I slide the keys out of the ignition. “Probably here about something wrong with the car her parents got her for her Sweet Sixteen. Nothing remarkable or interesting about her. Plus, she probably smells like stale Cheetos and is a terrible kisser, so no need to worry about anything.”

Immensely cheered by that thought, I step out of the car. After I untie my mechanic’s jumpsuit from my waist and slip my arms back into it, so I look vaguely less sweaty, I stroll toward Grandma Jolene’s office.

When I open the door, the first thing that hits me is the smell of coconut with a metallic undercurrent of kerosene and engine oil. The second is the power of the girl’s scowl when she turns it toward me.

“Where’s Jolene?” she asks, glaring at my chest. For a moment, my heart leaps, hoping she’s checking me out, but then I realize she’s reading my name tag.

“Uhm, eating a chicken salad sandwich somewhere?” I manage through an outbreak of nerves that nearly knocks me flat. How am I the same girl who has stared down and beaten racers twice my size? I fiddle with the buttons on my jumpsuit.

The girl looks around the office, like I’m hiding Grandma Jolene and her chicken salad in a closet.

“I mean, she’s at lunch.” To cover my flushed face, I take a seat behind Grandma Jolene’s desk.

“When will she be back?”

“That’s anyone’s guess, but I can help. I’m—”

“JoJo,” interrupts the girl.

For a moment I’m flattered she’s heard of me, then I remember: name tag. Right.

“Do you know if she’ll be back soon?”

I shrug. “Depends how good the chicken salad is, I guess.”

“Well … what do you do here?”

“Fix cars, make coffee, change tires, you name it.” I fidget with a pencil, and the girl’s eyes follow my grease-stained fingers. It’s unnerving and vaguely embarrassing to be so filthy from work next to her—even with her oil-streaked neck—and for the first time in my life, I wish I’d taken Grandma Jolene up on her offer of a manicure.

“Do you have access to information about former employees, then?”

I shake my head. “I mean, I can tell you a few things, like stories Jolene’s told me, but I’ve only worked here for a few weeks.”

“Where were you before that?”

“Do I have the right to talk to a lawyer before answering, Investigator?” I ask.

“No,” the girl says dryly, but I swear, she’s biting back a smile when she does.

I shrug. Might as well tell her about myself. Maybe it will get her talking, too. Plus, I’ve not talked to anyone my own age in person for weeks, and I kind of miss it. “I just moved here with my dad from Charleston. Jolene’s my grandma.”

“That’s why she’s got a framed picture of you, I guess.” The girl nods toward a photo on Grandma Jolene’s desk. It’s of me and Mom, who wears her racing jumpsuit and stands in front of her car. Number 17. She’s grinning, as usual when she was on the track, and she’s got an arm around me. The other one holds an enormous trophy.

“That’s my mama. It was taken right after she won the Busch Light Clash in Los Angeles this year.”