Karen looked at her phone.
“Did you record the entire stop?”
“Yes.”
“Did you record when the tow truck arrived?”
“Yes.”
The woman glanced toward Kavalik.
“And something before that.”
Karen’s pulse changed.
“What?”
The woman opened the video timeline.
“I started recording before he pulled behind you.”
Karen stared at the screen.
In the distance, long before Kavalik drew his weapon, the Kingsland tow truck could already be seen parked behind a gas station across Kingsley Road.
Waiting.
Karen watched the video three times.
The civilian introduced herself as Marilyn Foster, a retired middle-school principal.
She had been stopped at the gas station because her tire-pressure warning light had come on.
“I noticed the tow truck because the driver kept looking down the road,” Marilyn explained.
Karen enlarged the image.
There it was.
Kingsland Recovery’s truck.
Timestamp: 10:12 a.m.
Kavalik’s cruiser did not appear behind Karen until 10:19.
Seven minutes.
Karen felt a cold pressure beneath her ribs.
Marilyn whispered, “They knew.”
Behind them, the station door opened.
Kavalik stepped outside.
“Ms. Foster.”
Marilyn went rigid.
“You know me?”
“Small county.”
His smile was casual.
His eyes were not.
“You recording department personnel without permission?”
Marilyn looked frightened.
Karen answered.
“She doesn’t need your permission to record what occurred in public.”
Kavalik ignored Karen.
“Wouldn’t want people getting confused by incomplete video.”
Marilyn tightened her grip on the phone.
Karen recognized intimidation when she saw it.
“Send me a copy.”
Kavalik’s eyes moved to Karen.
Marilyn hesitated.
Karen gave her an email address belonging to her private attorney, not her judicial chambers.
“No editing. Original file if possible.”
Marilyn nodded.
Kavalik said, “You planning to sue me?”
Karen put on her jacket.
“I’m planning to find my motorcycle.”
She walked away.
Her brother Marcus arrived twenty minutes later in his aging Chevrolet pickup.
Karen had not called him first.
She had called Elena.
That had been a mistake.
Her twenty-four-year-old daughter was finishing her second year at Georgetown Law and had immediately threatened to board the first flight home.
“Mom, a sheriff pointed a gun at you.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re saying that like somebody spilled coffee.”
Karen had convinced her to stay in Washington.
Then she called Marcus.
Her younger brother said only, “Where?”
Now his truck stopped hard at the curb.
Marcus Ashworth climbed out before fully shutting off the engine.
At forty-four he had their father’s build, broad through the shoulders, with Samuel’s habit of walking as though every destination had offended him personally.
He saw Karen’s wrist.
His face changed.
“Who did that?”
“I’m fine.”
“Karen.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Marcus looked toward the station.
“Kavalik?”
“Yes.”
Marcus started toward the building.
Karen grabbed his arm.
“Don’t.”
“He put a gun on you?”
“Marcus.”
“He handcuffed you?”
“Yes.”
“And stole Dad’s bike?”
“Seized.”
Marcus turned.
“Don’t give it a legal word like that makes it cleaner.”
The anger in his voice surprised her.
There was something beneath it.
Fear.
Karen studied him.
“You know Kavalik.”
Marcus looked away.
“Everybody knows Kavalik.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He opened the passenger door.
“Get in.”
“Marcus.”
“Get in, Karen.”
She did.
For several minutes they drove without speaking.
The tension between them was older than that morning.
Samuel’s death had widened a crack already present.
Karen had lived two states away for most of her career.
Marcus had stayed.
He had run Ashworth Motor Works with their father.
He had driven Samuel to cardiology appointments.
He had handled the medication organizer.
He had found him dead beside the kitchen table.
At the funeral Marcus had said, “You got the speeches. I got the years.”
Karen had never forgotten it.
Now he drove toward their father’s old garage.
“Why were you riding today?” Marcus asked.
“You know why.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“Dad’s birthday.”
“Yes.”
“You could’ve called.”
“I didn’t think I needed permission.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
They fell silent again.
At the garage, Karen noticed the sign had faded.
ASHWORTH MOTOR WORKS.
Samuel’s name remained painted in small letters beneath.
Marcus unlocked the office.
Karen had not been inside since the estate inventory.
The room still smelled like coffee, grease and cedar shavings.
A photograph of Samuel stood beside the register.
He was leaning against the Ducati.
Smiling.
Karen looked away.
Marcus opened a cabinet.
“What did Kavalik say?”
“Possible theft.”
Marcus stopped.
Karen noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No.”
She stepped closer.
“You reacted.”
Marcus closed the cabinet.
“Because it’s insane.”
“Did Dad ever have trouble with that motorcycle?”
“No.”
“Registration?”
“No.”
“Tickets?”
“No.”
“Then why did you react?”
Marcus faced her.
For several seconds he seemed to be deciding whether to lie.
Karen recognized that too.
He finally said, “Dad had trouble with Kavalik.”
The garage became very quiet.
“What kind of trouble?”
Marcus walked to the office door and locked it.
“He started noticing customers coming in after vehicle seizures.”
“What kind?”
“Expensive cars. Motorcycles. Trucks.”
Karen remembered the printed list.
“Why would they come here after seizure?”
“Because some got their vehicles back damaged. Missing parts. Changed mileage. Others never got them back at all.”
Karen felt the pieces moving again.
“What did Dad do?”
“He asked questions.”
“How many?”
“Too many.”
Karen stared at him.
“And?”
Marcus rubbed his face.
“One night somebody broke into the garage.”
“You told me it was teenagers.”
“That’s what Dad wanted you to think.”
Anger rose.
“When?”
“Fourteen months ago.”
“Before he died?”
“Yes.”
“What was taken?”
“Almost nothing.”
“Then why break in?”
Marcus looked toward Samuel’s photograph.
“They didn’t come to steal tools.”
Karen’s voice lowered.
“What did they come for?”
“A notebook.”
Her heart began pounding.
“What notebook?”
Marcus opened a desk drawer.
Empty.
“Dad was writing down VIN numbers.”
Karen stared at him.
“From seized vehicles?”
Marcus nodded.
“And names. Dates. Tow companies.”
“Where is it?”
Marcus did not answer.
“Marcus.”
He looked ashamed.
“Kavalik came here after Dad’s funeral.”
Karen went still.
“What did he want?”
“The notebook.”
“Did you give it to him?”