I had to move out, and Bailey had to get a roommate who wasn't panicked by the prospect of rent and utilities.
Bailey sighs. "I lied."
"What?"
"There's not a test I need help studying for. Finals were last week."
My stomach sinks. The semester is over. A whole semester since the accident, and I've been hiding at the Woodisons', marking time. Waiting for Brogan to wake up. "I should have known that, huh?"
"You have a few things going on." She gives me a tentative smile. "I just wanted to see you, and the only way you make time for me is if you think you're helping me out."
I flinch. "Am I that bad?"
She grabs my hand and squeezes it. "I worry about you. You look more stressed than usual. What's up?"
That's a loaded question. What's up is that I slept in Arrow's arms last night. What's up is that I can't stop thinking about him since he told me he wants me. What's up is that I offered myself to him, and he sent me away.
"Do you ever think about who was driving the car?" I ask. I don't have to explain what car or when. The accident never strays far from either of our minds.
"I don't believe Nic was dealing again," she says. "It's bullshit. And even if some of the thugs he used to run around with decided to get rid of him, how would they know to look for him on Deadman's Curve in the middle of the night?" She shakes her head. "I don't buy it."
"Me neither."
She lowers her gaze and worries her bottom lip between her teeth. "I used to spend so much time thinking about who did it," she says. "I couldn't sleep. I'd sit in the parking lot of the Pretty Kitty and catalogue every man who climbed into a dark SUV. Turns out that's a pretty fucking popular car choice around here."
"Whoever it was hit two grown men," I say.
"I know. And the fucker walked away." She shakes her head. "It's not right."
"No, I mean, Brogan and Nic weren't small guys. They had to have done damage to the car, right?"
She shrugs. "Yeah. I'm sure." Then she sits up. "The list of folks around here driving dark SUVs might be impossibly long, but the ones driving banged-up, dark SUVs . . ."
I nod. "Or the ones who got body work done on their dark SUVs . . ."
"But surely the police already went through this?" she says.
"They say the investigation is ongoing, and they won't tell me what they've done. But you know how the police work in this town." I wrap my arms around my waist. I can't stop thinking about what Arrow said about me acting like I died that night. Maybe if I had some answers, living my life wouldn't feel like betraying Brogan. "What if they're trying to protect someone? An officer, or the kid of an officer or something?"
"I've wondered about that myself."
"I made some calls this morning," I admit. "I called around to different body shops in the area to see if they'd give me some information on cars matching that description that had body work done."
"Any luck?"
"I got a ‘Nice try, lady,' a ‘Quit wasting my time,' and a ‘Just who do you think you are?' So I stopped calling."
Bailey points at me. "That's where you went wrong. You gotta do this shit in person. With cleavage."
I arch a brow. "You really think boobs are going to make people give us answers?"
"We're not talking about people. We're talking about men."
We start at the most popular body shop in town-Crowe's Automotive. We walk in the front door and wait at the front desk. To the right of the waiting area is a glass wall that overlooks that shop. I remember when this place was built. Everyone thought it was the coolest thing they'd ever seen.
Bailey steals a mint from the bowl and pops it into her mouth before ringing the bell. "You know what's sexy?" she asks around her candy.
"What?" I ask. I'm not really interested in her answer, but when she points, I have to look.
"That," Bailey says with a sigh. "Him."
There, standing on the other side of the glass in low-slung jeans and a tight white oil-stained T-shirt, is Sebastian Crowe.
"I know him," I say.
She cocks her head and folds her arms. "I swear, you have some sort of muscle magnet embedded in you. The more muscle they have, the faster they come." She snorts. "That sounded dirtier than I meant it, but that's probably true, too."
"I said I know him. Like, I met him once. He helped me get Dad inside after I picked him up from the Pretty Kitty a few weeks ago. I think he lives in the trailer park."
"No shit? I thought mechanics were supposed to make good money."
I shrug but don't get the chance to answer because Sebastian pushes through the swinging glass door that separates the service bay from the waiting area.
His gaze lands on me first. "Mia. Are you okay? Does your dad need something?" He's already grabbing a set of keys from a hook on the wall behind the counter.
"Muscle magnet," Bailey murmurs beside me.
I nudge an elbow into her side. "Dad's fine. Actually, we're looking for some information about, um, the services you provide."
Bailey gives me an exasperated look. "Amateur." She tugs on the hem of her shirt, and the already-low scooping neckline falls an inch lower. Propping her elbows on the service counter, she leans forward and grins at Sebastian. "I'm doing research for my marketing class. We're supposed to analyze local markets, and I chose body work." She drags her gaze meaningfully down his chest. "You know, on cars."
Sebastian grunts, and I can't help but like him more for not being impressed by Bailey's act. An older man with Sebastian's dark hair and eyes pushes into the waiting area, and Sebastian's eyes shift to me, questioning.
"We're looking for information about the people who've gotten body work done here since the beginning of the year," I explain. "Everything from a tiny dent to serious damage."
The man I assume must be Mr. Crowe rolls his eyes. "Who sent you? Denny's place? I told them we're not sharing our info. These young business owners today with all this secret-shopper bullshit."
"We're not secret shoppers," I assure him. "We just want the names of people who-"
"You want the names of my customers?" the man says. "Give me a fucking break. Denny sent you. Trying to poach my customers. What's he gonna do? Call and tell them I did it wrong so he can redo it? You tell him that if he did good work, he wouldn't have to have you girls in here lying in a pathetic attempt to get business."
"No, really. I-"
Sebastian lifts a hand and holds my gaze. The warning is there loud and clear: Stop while you're ahead. "Don't worry about it, Dad. I'll see if I can help the girls with their marketing project without sharing any of our customer information." He comes out from around the counter and goes to the front door. "Come on," he says, looking at us over his shoulder. "I'll walk you to your car."
"Thanks," I say to his father. Bailey and I rush to the door, escaping the rapidly mounting awkwardness filling the waiting room.
"What do you think you're doing?" Sebastian asks me when the door closes behind us. "And don't give me that bullshit about a marketing project. The semester just ended, and you two don't even go to the same school."
Bailey props her hands on her hips. "Well, aren't you creeptastically familiar with our lives, Mr. Muscles."
Rolling his eyes, he drags a hand through his hair. "Please tell me this isn't about the accident."
Bailey shifts her gaze to me and drops her hands from her hips.
"It was an SUV," I say, looking Sebastian in the eye. "Big and boxy, so probably not a recent model. It hit two grown men. There had to have been some damage."
"What makes you think it was someone local?" he asks. "Or that they got the work done here? Could have been another body shop or, hell, if I was trying to cover something up I might go to a place in Indy or Louisville. Not the place the crime happened."
"I know," I say. "I know all of that. But I just have to do this, okay? I have to look."
Sebastian shifts and glances over his shoulder toward the shop. "You want names?"
"Yes. I won't tell anyone where I got the information."
"I'm not promising anything, but I'll see what I can do."
I fucking hate the treadmill. I love running. I love pushing my body and churning my legs so fast my lungs burn. But I hate being stuck on this treadmill. I want big sky, not ceiling. I want the give and take of a real hill and the rise and fall of the earth, not the whirring of the mechanical incline. After five miles, I do sprints, pushing my body and my legs until my heart pounds so hard and my breath comes so fast that there's no more room for my thoughts.