“Nah, come down. I shut us in.”
“Thank fuck.”
I managed to get to the main floor, ignoring the twinge in my side that still hadn’t faded, and followed Rio toward the kitchen. He didn’t wait for me to fussor limp, just assumed I’d join him, and somehow that helped. I kept my chin high and pretended it didn’t hurt, and he let me have that.
The kitchen surprised me. It was cleaner than I expected—a mix of utilitarian and dated, with tan cabinets and a Formica counter, all of it worn but scrubbed to a shine. The kind of place that said people actually used it. A table dominated the center of the room, six mismatched chairs crowded around it.
Rio went to the fridge, opened it, and pulled out two sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. He set them on the table and followed with a selection of Dorito snack bags, and some canned drinks—lemon soda and root beer.
“You choose first,” he said, cracking open his can. “One’s ham and cheese, the other’s chicken salad.”
I stepped closer and hesitated for a second, then noticed something scribbled on the wraps. Each sandwich had my name written in small block letters. My chest tightened.
“You labeled these?”
He shrugged, as if it was nothing. “Enzo can eat forever, and Jamie’s not far behind. Didn’t want your food walking off. One’s yours, the other one is mine.”
“Doyouhave a favorite?”
“Either is my favorite.”
I chose the chicken salad, unwrapped it, and took a bite—and holy hell. My eyes widened.
“This is the best thing ever.” I forced the words out between chews. “What did you do to this?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not me. Simon next door; not sure what he does to them, mayo, salt, pepper.” He examined his ham and cheese. “It’s just a sandwich.”
I slowed down, partly to savor it and partly because my body wasn’t accustomed to consuming so much food at once right now. “Well, it’s a fucking revelation.”
He smirked, amused at how easily impressed I was.
I glanced at Rio, took a breath, and asked the question I’d been wondering since I got here.
“So, are you from around here?”
He shot me a look as if I’d asked if the sky was blue. “You’re telling me you haven’t researched me?”
I lifted a shoulder. “Your name and this garage came up when I was trying to track down Jamie, but other than that? No. I know you’re ex-cons,” I said carefully. “And I guess this place is… like a rehab thing?”
That made him laugh. A low, warm rumble fromdeep in his chest. “Don’t let Tudor hear you call it that.”
“Tudor?”
He nodded. “Owned Redcars before Logan, whom you haven’t met because he’s down in San Diego with his new partner, daughter, and Tudor -- long story. He ran the place for years. Old-school. Taught us more about engines than any textbook ever could. But he gave us more than that—picked us out of prison and gave all four of us space to be something other than criminals.”
“Four…”
“Logan, then Enzo, me, Jamie. All here because of Tudor.”
I remembered the name from my review of the files related to Jamie. Tudor Barrera. A couple of archived articles hinted at a rough past, including a prison stint and references to street racing in the past, as well as shady deals, but provided no solid details. Still, people respected him.
“What would he say about you being here then, if not rehab?” I asked.
“That we needed a family,” Rio said simply. “And he let us have one.”
He let the words hang there for a beat, then looked straight at me.
“Eight years in High Desert for murder,” he said, voice steady.
