“We found something in your car,” he said, pausing. “Not a busted part. Something else. You’d better come in and have a look at it yourself.” Margaret’s first thought was drugs or a gun—some leftover from the impound. Her chest tightened. The last thing she needed was the police hauling her in.
Inside, the shop smelled of engine oil and fresh coffee. The car sat on a lift, wheels removed, panels half-open. The owner, Ken, gestured for her to follow. He didn’t say much as he led her past tool benches, toward a small work table where an object lay waiting.