It was so cold. It's okay. It's okay. I've got you. You're safe. " Audrey pulled back, wiping mascara streaks from her cheeks.
She looked her mother up and down. Are you okay? Did he hurt you? Martha looked at Dean, who was standing by the tire pile, watching the reunion with a mixture of exhaustion and relief. Hurt me?
Martha scoffed, pulling Audrey to her feet. Don't be ridiculous, Audrey. This young man saved my life. And this little one? She gestured to Noah, who was hiding slightly behind her leg.
Taught me how to draw a very fierce dinosaur. Audrey turned to look at Dean. The hostility was gone, but the defense mechanisms were still there. She wiped her face, standing up straight, trying to pull her armor back on. "I Audrey started, her voice shaking slightly.
She cleared her throat. I assume you'll want a reward. " Dean let out a harsh, bitter laugh. He shook his head, looking away. I don't want your money, lady. I just want to get back to work.
He walked past her, heading toward the garage. Take your mom home. Keep a better eye on her. He walked into the dim light of the shop, grabbed a wrench from the bench, and slid back under the rusted F-150. He didn't look back to see them leave.
He just closed his eyes in the dark, listening to the quiet hum of the Maybach, pulling out of his life, taking his only distraction with it, leaving him alone with the cold and the debts. He thought that was the end of it. He was wrong. Two weeks passed. The rain came back, washing away the grease stains where the Maybach had parked, leaving the lot looking just as bleak and forgotten as it had before.
Dean didn't hear from the billionaire. He didn't expect to. People like Audrey Hayes lived in the stratosphere. They didn't look down unless they dropped something. She had her mother back.
The transaction was complete. But reality didn't pause for good deeds. It was Thursday afternoon. The shop was dead quiet. No pneumatic drills, no classic rock playing from the grease stained radio, no metallic clatter of dropped wrenches, just the hollow sound of packing tape ripping from a plastic dispenser.
Rip. Dean sealed a cardboard box full of socket sets. He shoved it toward the pile growing by the office door. The bank hadn't cared that he'd had a rough month. They hadn't cared that the neighborhood was gentrifying and property taxes were suffocating small businesses.
The 30 days were up. The foreclosure notice on the front door was a bright screaming orange. Dad. Dean stopped. He wiped a hand across his forehead, leaving a smudge of dirt.