A tiny gold church bell.
Mack knew it immediately.
**Saint Bartholomew’s Heritage Committee gave those out only to the daughters and granddaughters of town leadership families.**
His jaw tightened.
Behind him, the garage had gone silent. Diesel, Tank, and Rooster had all stopped working. No one said a word, but Mack felt their attention sharpen like a blade.
“Can I pick you up?” he asked.
She gave the faintest nod.
The second he lifted her, she flinched so hard it was almost violent. Not from him—from the expectation of pain. Mack felt it like a punch to the ribs. He carried her to the old leather couch in the office and laid her down with impossible gentleness.
Doc Harris, a retired combat medic who now spent half his days at Wrenchhouse pretending to drink coffee and mind his business, was beside her in seconds.
He examined the leg with practiced hands, his expression turning colder with each passing second.
“**Possible fracture. Older bruising too. Some fresh. Some not.**” His voice dropped. “Mack… this isn’t one bad fall.”
The little girl stared at the ceiling.
“Sweetheart,” Doc said softly, “what’s your name?”
“Ellie.”
“Ellie what?”
She hesitated. Her tiny hand clenched the bracelet.
“Ellie Whitmore.”
The room changed.
Everyone in Maple Ridge knew the Whitmores.
**Councilman Daniel Whitmore. His wife, Rebecca. Big white house on Willow Lane. Faces at the front pew every Sunday. Smiling family in every Heritage Day parade.**
Mack felt a hot pulse of rage crawl up his neck.
“Ellie,” he said gently, fighting to keep his voice steady, “who hurt your leg?”
Her eyes flicked to him. Then to the door. Then back.
And in a whisper full of fear, she said, “I’m not s’posed to tell. Daddy says when people talk, bad things happen.”
For one long second, nobody in the garage breathed.
Mack stood up so fast the chair behind him skidded.
Tank caught his arm. “Easy.”
