That was exactly the point. He had not asked the officers to seize Denise’s phone, arrest her, or believe him automatically. He wanted a report and an investigation.
Cole stared at the forged document in Monroe’s hand. “You told me he finally agreed,” he said to his mother. Denise answered that he had.
“Then why didn’t he call me?” Cole asked. Denise’s face tightened.
Raymond said nothing. That was a question the young man needed to keep asking.
Months earlier, Cole’s interest in the Mustang had been one of the few things Raymond genuinely liked about having the Hartwells nearby. The young man worked afternoons at an auto-parts store while studying automotive technology at Wakefield Community College. Unlike Denise, his interest in old cars came from curiosity rather than status.
He asked Raymond sensible questions about carburetors, factory trim, transmission ratios, and the difference between original components and reproduction parts. Raymond let him help occasionally because his late wife, Margaret, had always believed old machines became more valuable when younger people learned why they mattered. Cole listened well.
The Mustang itself had been part of Raymond and Margaret’s marriage for almost fourteen years. They purchased it as a neglected shell from a retired mechanic outside Raleigh after Margaret spotted the listing online and convinced Raymond that spending retirement savings on rust qualified as a hobby. The engine was out, the interior smelled like mice, and one quarter panel had more filler than steel. Margaret loved it immediately.
For six years, they rebuilt the car on weekends. Raymond handled most mechanical work while Margaret researched paint codes, interior stitching, trim packages, and factory details with the seriousness of an archivist. They argued about whether the car should remain Highland Green or return to the original dark metallic blue discovered beneath the door jambs.
Margaret won. The completed Mustang became a deep, almost-black blue that turned bright in direct sunlight. She joked that the color behaved like Raymond because it looked serious until somebody gave it enough light.
Then pancreatic cancer arrived. Margaret died three years after the restoration was finished. Raymond stopped driving the Mustang for almost eight months.
His daughter, Claire, finally came to the house and found dust gathering across the hood. “Mom would be furious,” she told him. Raymond said dead people had limited authority over vehicle maintenance.
Claire answered, “You clearly never met my mother.” Raymond started the car the next weekend.
When he later accepted the Fairmont chief position and moved to Laurel Creek, the Mustang came with him. Cole noticed it before Raymond had completely unpacked the garage.
The first time he asked whether Raymond would ever sell, Raymond laughed. “Not planning to.” Cole said if that changed, he wanted the first call.
Raymond answered, “If that day ever comes, you can have the first conversation.” Cole grinned.
Apparently he repeated the sentence at home. Denise heard something different.
Several weeks later she approached Raymond while he was checking tire pressure. “Cole says you promised him the Mustang.” Raymond corrected her immediately.