Page 11 of Full Throttle

She guided the car toward the garage, unable to bring herself to look at the stands. She could imagine Cap leaning over to explain it to her dumbstruck parents. Must have taken a corner too fast…yeah, the way it bounced and then gave was definitely the rear suspension…Her family would be kind about it, of course, but that was the problem. The Marchmonts were fixers. Lost your job? Have a cup of tea. Going through a divorce? Here’s an ice cream. Sadness was treated as an affliction that could be cured, and just for now, she wanted to stew in self-pity.

She parked in the garage, her hands trembling as she switched off the engine. God, what a mess. How had she even blown the rear suspension? If she hadn’t known any better, she would have said that it had been—

A terrible thought occurred to her.

No. That wasn’t possible.

Was it?

She leaped out of the vehicle. A young mechanic in an oil-speckled uniform sprung to his feet, hastily setting down a House & Garden magazine. He looked at Juliette in alarm as she started for the wall of tools. “What are you doing?”

She selected a wrench. Weighed it in her hand.

Fuck it. That’d do.

Juliette dropped to her knees, working off the chassis. The mechanic picked up a juice box, possibly to lob it at her as a distraction. “Stop!” He looked around, although for whom, she didn’t know. It was only them in the garage. “You can’t touch the cars. It’s against the—”

“Jules?” a voice called. “Are you in here?”

Cap stepped into the garage. His baseball cap shadowed his face, his blue eyes hidden behind sunglasses. Still, Juliette didn’t need to see her brother’s face to register his concern; he was doing a poor job of hiding it. Clyde trotted in after him and unceremoniously began dismantling the nearest toolbox. The mechanic let out a cry, leaping for the tools.

“What are you doing?” Cap asked.

Juliette set down the wrench. “Someone fucked with my car.”

“Call off your dog,” the mechanic said desperately, attempting to wrestle a box of shims out of Clyde’s mouth. “And your friend, while you’re at it.”

Cap surveyed her. If it was anyone else, Juliette thought, they might chalk up her outburst to being a sore loser. But her brother just looked thoughtful. “How do you know?”

“A hunch.” Juliette dug around the car. “I felt the suspension give, and—Ah!” She drew back her hand, triumphant. “There’s the little bastard.”

“What is it?”

“The wishbone.” Juliette nodded at the V-shaped titanium. “You see how the leading arm is damaged?” She ran a hand over the bent metal. “It’s almost like someone struck it with a…”

Her eyes fell on a hammer.

Cap circled the car, assessing. “It could have just broken.”

Juliette frowned. That was possible. Titanium was strong, but not infallible; if she’d hit the curb at an unusual angle and then braked heavily…But she hadn’t.

Not once.

“No.” It was the mechanic who spoke. He was kneeling as he patted Clyde, holding a drool-covered box. “Do you know how much each part of that car is worth? We rigorously test everything.” He was pale as he looked at the bent wishbone. “I don’t understand. I checked the car yesterday and it was fine.”

Juliette rose, her ears ringing.

Oh, she understood perfectly.

This was sabotage. And she knew damn well who’d done it.

“Knock, knock,” a cheerful voice called.

She turned. Frederick Von Galen pushed his way into the garage. His bleach-blond tips were sweaty, and a bottle of half-drunk champagne was tucked under his arm. So he’d officially won, Juliette realized hollowly. Of course he had.

“Oh, dear,” Frederick drawled. “Car problems?”

He leaned against the hood. Juliette’s fingers twitched.