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“Evan Calder is dead.”

Smoke's expression changes. “What?”

“He was murdered six weeks ago.”

“Jesus Christ.” His gaze moves to me. “You a cop?”

“No.”

“What are you?”

“Not a cop.”

Callie clears her throat. She smiles weakly. “He's a hitman.”

Smoke stares at me. “He’s a fucking what?”

“Long story.”

“You brought a fucking hitman into my garage?”

“I rescued him first.”

Smoke's eyes close. “Of course you did.”

I almost smile.

Callie leans forward. “Do you remember anything weird about Evan?”

Smoke rubs a hand over his jaw. “No.”

“Think,” I command.

His eyes narrow at me.

Callie touches my arm again.

Right. Apparently, the Quinn family doesn’t appreciate my interviewing technique.

“He had you do custom work,” she says. “You sent me pictures.”

“I send you pictures of half the shit I work on.”

“Because you like showing off.”

“Because you don't know shit about cars.”

“I know plenty about cars.”

“You called an alternator an electricity thing.”

“I was seventeen.”

“You were twenty-two.”

“Not relevant.”

I wait.