Chapter 3 - Seventy-Two Hours
At eight Saturday morning, Valerie found Warren beside the Ferrari with a clipboard, a camera, and a woman in navy coveralls.
“This is Denise Alvarez,” he said. “Independent automotive electrical engineer.”
Valerie glanced between them.
“You said no assistant.”
“She isn’t assisting. She’s witnessing.”
“Witnessing what?”
“I’ll explain in your office.”
Brent emerged before she could answer.
“No outside contractors enter a controlled restoration area without—”
“I invited her,” Valerie said.
It wasn’t true until she said it.
Now it was.
Inside the office, Warren placed copies of the drawings on her desk.
He kept the originals in his bag.
“My father built a concealed isolation circuit into your car.”
Valerie frowned.
“Your father?”
“Samuel Ellis.”
She looked at the name.
Then at the photograph of two men beneath the unfinished garage sign.
The color left her face.
“I remember him.”
Warren waited.
“He came to the house when I was little. He made me a little wooden ramp for my bicycle.”
Her eyes moved to the delivery receipt.
“What is this?”
“Evidence that Black Ridge was told about the circuit six years ago.”
She read the letter.
Then she read it again.
“Brent signed for this.”
“Yes.”
“Could it still be something else?”
“Absolutely. A disabled circuit can exist alongside other faults. I haven’t established the car is safe to start.”
He watched her absorb that.
“Your deadline doesn’t require me to gamble with your father’s engine.”
Something in her expression changed.
Perhaps she had finally realized how many people had treated urgency as permission.
“What do you need?”
“Written authorization to document the console, inspect the circuit, and test its state. Denise records everything. We stop if the evidence changes.”
Valerie signed.
Then she looked toward the service floor.
“And Brent?”
“Preserve the records before you confront him.”
She stood.
For the next hour, the garage became unexpectedly quiet.
Valerie called Graham Rusk, Black Ridge’s owner, and asked him to come in. Then she called an attorney she trusted with business disputes.
No accusations.
No dramatic announcement.
Just instructions to preserve invoices, emails, photographs, access records, and security footage.
At 10:12, Leah Dorsey approached Warren while Denise photographed the center console.
Her hands trembled around a paper cup.
“Did you find something in the old paperwork?”
“Why?”
Leah glanced toward Brent’s office.
“Because he asked me to remove duplicate attachments from the Denton account yesterday.”
“What attachments?”
“I didn’t open them.”
“Did you remove them?”
“I moved them to the archive folder. They’re still on the server.”
Warren set down his pen.
“Tell Valerie exactly that.”
“I need this job.”
“I know.”
He let the silence hold.
Then he added, “You also deserve a job where somebody doesn’t make you afraid to tell the truth.”
Leah’s eyes filled.
She nodded and walked away.
At eleven, Warren removed the console trim using the original fasteners.
No cutting.
No drilling.
Beneath the panel sat a narrow metal enclosure.
Its label had faded almost completely.
But the engraved initials remained.
S.E.
Denise leaned closer.
“That matches the drawing.”
Warren photographed the enclosure before opening it.
Inside were a mechanical selector, a fuse holder, and an old relay mounted on a handmade bracket.
He checked the circuit against Samuel’s notes.
Then he checked it again.
The selector was in the storage position.
A second problem emerged during resistance testing: the relay contacts had deteriorated.
Not enough to explain every invoice.
Enough to make simply flipping a switch unreliable.
He wrote both findings down.
At 12:46, Valerie came to the bay.
“Can you fix it?”
“I can restore this circuit. Then we verify the rest of the car before attempting a start.”
“How long?”
“I still have more than fifty hours.”
Behind her, Brent laughed.
“That homemade junk could burn the entire car.”
Denise straightened.
“Then you’ll be relieved we’re measuring it.”
Brent ignored her.
He looked directly at Warren.
“You have no idea what you’re interfering with.”
Warren capped his pen.
For the first time that weekend, his voice hardened.
“Then explain it.”
Brent’s gaze flicked toward Valerie.
May you like
He said nothing.
And that silence told her more than his twenty-four years of experience ever had.
