Sloane
After hours, the garage settles into a quiet rhythm. The noise from earlier fades, leaving behind the soft ticking of cooling engines, the occasional metallic shift of the tin siding, and the uneven hum of the vending machine in the corner.
Grease smears across my forehead as I drag the back of my wrist over damp skin. My braid is a frayed tangle of brown hairs, strands clinging to the back of my neck, and my coveralls hang open at my waist. The white tank top underneath sticks to my spine, heavy with sweat.
Late nights have never been a problem for me. If anything, they make the work easier. No one watching over my shoulder or offering opinions that I didn’t ask for. No one lingering closer than they would if I were a man.
Leaning over the open hood of Mrs. Klein’s Buick, I tighten the final bolt on the alternator and check the connections again. The motion is automatic, shaped by repetition and the steady echo of my dad’s voice reminding me to double check my work before walking away.
The hood lowers, the latch clicking softly. My hand rests against the dull red metal for a moment before I step back.
“All set,” I murmur, the words disappearing into the empty space.
At the toolbox, each wrench and socket slides back into place without much thought. The routine is steady and predictable. I can’t control much in this crazy world, but my tools are in impeccable order. I lock the box, one too many 10 millimeter sockets have walked out of my set over the years for me to trust anyone else with the key.
Grabbing the dirty rags I’ve used to clean my hands all day, I’m almost done with cleanup when a strange voice drifts through the garage door.
The sound is faint at first, just enough to inadvertently catch my attention. Words blur together through the metal, but I freeze in place. The voices are masculine, and deep, speaking in a tone I can only describe as sinister.
My fingers hover over the light switch but I don’t dare move a muscle.
People pass by all the time. The gravel lot gets used as a turnaround, especially at night. Usually there’s laughter, music, teenagers being loud and carefree as they break curfew.
That isn’t what this sounds like.
A step closer to the door brings the conversation into clearer focus.
“…tomorrow night.”
The voice is rough. Too tired and worn to be a teen.
Another man answers, his tone quieter, “You sure?”
A pause stretches between them.
“Boss is. Said we’re getting paid well to get it done quick.”
My hand clenches the oily rags tighter.
Boss.
Around here, there’s only one man that can be. I don’t know his real name, only his road name. I don’t even hang out at the biker’s bar, but everyone in Hollow Creek knows him.
He loaned Joey Mackenzie the money for a brand new truck, and then charged him a bogus interest rate. When he couldn’t pay, Boss had two of his biker goons shatter Joey’s kneecaps.
Now Joey’s in a wheelchair and he’s up to his eyeballs in debt to the motorcycle gang.
“She’ll be alone with her daughter. Same as always.”
My chest tightens.
This isn’t about work, or just two guys gossiping in a deserted parking lot.
The air in the shop feels different now, thinner, as every small sound sharpens. My breath comes out slow, careful, and quiet, while I strain to hear more.
“…in and out…”
“She’ll never see it coming…”
