Chapter Three

I turn the key in the Subaru's ignition, closing my eyes for a moment as I pretend it's the purr of an F1 car and not the wheeze of an old station wagon that greets me. Despite my anxiety about racing, I have to admit I've missed driving. My hands move slowly over the wheel, my fingertips sliding over the stitching, caressing it as I imagine a whole stretch of track in front of me, waiting to be eaten up by my car. I grip the wheel tighter, pretending to shift into first. Both my hands slide across the wheel as we take the first turn and—

A knock at my window startles me out of my reverie.

My eyes fly open and I see a girl with what looks like handprints of motor oil on her pink T-shirt standing outside my window. She wears jeans and a tremendous scowl. Her blond bob is half pulled back, and she has a pen stuck behind her ear. A small streak of grease marks her neck. Everything about her sparks my curiosity.

Mortified to be caught feeling up the Subaru, I release the steering wheel and unroll the window. "Uhm, hi?"

"Do you work here?" she asks, looking around the parking lot. It's empty except for a minivan the color of reheated oatmeal and the Subaru. Her dark eyebrows knit together and there's an intensity to her I instantly like. She reminds me of other race car girls I've known—an intoxicating cocktail of grit and determination all contained in the arc of her eyebrows and her slight frown.

I swallow hard as she stares at me. "I do work here, yes."

"Good. I have some questions for you."

She has questions? For me? Lord help me, I might actually melt under that stare. JoJo Emerson-Boyd, now a puddle on the floor of the Subaru.

Instead, I arch an eyebrow, trying to keep my cool. "What are you, a private investigator?"

"No." Her frown deepens. It's adorable.

"An intern at a private investigator's office?"

The girl lets out a huff. "No."

My curiosity rises as does my need to know more about this girl, but rather than asking a decent question, I blurt out: "Are you the assistant to an intern at a private investigator's office?"

The girl looks vaguely murderous. "What? Oh my God. Are you always this annoying?"

I smirk, desperately wishing I was behind the wheel of anything besides this booger-green Subaru. "I think you meant to say charming. And yes, I'm always this charming."

The girl rolls her eyes so hard, I'm certain she's going to strain her optic nerve or something. "I'm kind of in a rush here. Can you just answer my questions? Please?"

Her voice carries an edge of real pleading and suddenly I want to buy her coffee, not keep teasing her. "I can do that, but first I have to get this car parked. Meet me inside and we can talk?" I offer the words like an olive branch, hoping she sees them for that.

"Fine." The girl storms toward the open garage doors before I can say anything else.

"Real smooth, Jo. Such cool-girl energy," I mutter to myself as I put the Subaru in Drive and pull away. "This is why you're single."

Exactly one minute later, I've parked the Subaru inside and grabbed my picture of Jamie Chadwick. The girl in the pink shirt sits in Jolene's office, arms crossed, frowning at a tin sign on the wall.

Because she's cute even though she's grumpy and because I'm trying to think of what to say to her—I've literally not flirted with anyone since we moved to Dell's Hollow, and talking to a cute, oil-streaked girl does strange things to my insides—I sit in the car for a few seconds longer than necessary.

"She's just a customer," I say to myself as I slide the keys out of the ignition. "Probably here about something wrong with the car her parents got her for her Sweet Sixteen. Nothing remarkable or interesting about her. Plus, she probably smells like stale Cheetos and is a terrible kisser, so no need to worry about anything."

Immensely cheered by that thought, I step out of the car. After I untie my mechanic's jumpsuit from my waist and slip my arms back into it, so I look vaguely less sweaty, I stroll toward Grandma Jolene's office.

When I open the door, the first thing that hits me is the smell of coconut with a metallic undercurrent of kerosene and engine oil. The second is the power of the girl's scowl when she turns it toward me.

"Where's Jolene?" she asks, glaring at my chest. For a moment, my heart leaps, hoping she's checking me out, but then I realize she's reading my name tag.

"Uhm, eating a chicken salad sandwich somewhere?" I manage through an outbreak of nerves that nearly knocks me flat. How am I the same girl who has stared down and beaten racers twice my size? I fiddle with the buttons on my jumpsuit.

The girl looks around the office, like I'm hiding Grandma Jolene and her chicken salad in a closet.

"I mean, she's at lunch." To cover my flushed face, I take a seat behind Grandma Jolene's desk.

"When will she be back?"

"That's anyone's guess, but I can help. I'm—"

"JoJo," interrupts the girl.

For a moment I'm flattered she's heard of me, then I remember: name tag. Right.

"Do you know if she'll be back soon?"

I shrug. "Depends how good the chicken salad is, I guess."

"Well … what do you do here?"

"Fix cars, make coffee, change tires, you name it." I fidget with a pencil, and the girl's eyes follow my grease-stained fingers. It's unnerving and vaguely embarrassing to be so filthy from work next to her—even with her oil-streaked neck—and for the first time in my life, I wish I'd taken Grandma Jolene up on her offer of a manicure.

"Do you have access to information about former employees, then?"

I shake my head. "I mean, I can tell you a few things, like stories Jolene's told me, but I've only worked here for a few weeks."

"Where were you before that?"

"Do I have the right to talk to a lawyer before answering, Investigator?" I ask.

"No," the girl says dryly, but I swear, she's biting back a smile when she does.

I shrug. Might as well tell her about myself. Maybe it will get her talking, too. Plus, I've not talked to anyone my own age in person for weeks, and I kind of miss it. "I just moved here with my dad from Charleston. Jolene's my grandma."

"That's why she's got a framed picture of you, I guess." The girl nods toward a photo on Grandma Jolene's desk. It's of me and Mom, who wears her racing jumpsuit and stands in front of her car. Number 17. She's grinning, as usual when she was on the track, and she's got an arm around me. The other one holds an enormous trophy.

"That's my mama. It was taken right after she won the Busch Light Clash in Los Angeles this year."

And three weeks before she died. Which I don't tell this girl.

She looks at the picture, then back at me. "Wow, that's impressive. She's pretty."

"She was," I agree. "And she was really, really fast. She taught me to drive. Before moving here, I raced cars as a job. Well, karts. Which is hardly a job, but it was fun and sometimes I made money off it."

"I race, too!" she exclaims, dropping the PI attitude for the first time to fully smile, and the shift is adorable. "Or I did. Not as a job, though, and not cars. But maybe I've heard of your mom; is she famous?"

I shrug. "You might know her—DeeDee Emerson?"

"That sounds familiar."

"She was a NASCAR champion."

Recognition lights up her eyes. "Wait! I know how I know her. We have this plaque dedicated to her at work!"

I could ask more questions about that, but I leave it. Lots of places have plaques about my mom. DeeDee Emerson bought tires here. DeeDee Emerson signed our wall. DeeDee Emerson ate a cheeseburger in this very booth. It's nothing new, and I don't feel like getting into all that mess with this girl. "Do you follow the circuit?" I ask instead.

She shakes her head. "I don't really watch NASCAR."

"What about F1? The F1 Academy, which is the successor to the W Series?"

"What's that?"

A long sigh rushes out of me. Patience. It's not this girl's fault that most people outside of racing don't know about the F1 Academy or how it's changing the sport. "It's a training program for elite female race car drivers. It helps them get into F1 someday, which is my goal in life."

"So what are you doing working here?" the girl asks. "I mean, if you're a race car driver and your mom's famous?"

"I work here because it's our family business." No need to tell her my entire sad backstory. "Hey, what's your name?"

The girl considers me for a long moment. "I'm Eliana—El—Blum. I'm looking for information about my sister, Maxine Blum. She used to work here, until three months ago."

"Where is she now?"

"That's what I want to talk to Jolene about. I'm hoping she has an address for her."

"Why don't you have her address if she's your sister? How does a private investigator lose a sister?"

As soon as the words are out, I regret them. Because, as I know, there are all sorts of ways to lose people. And El's sister is none of my business.

She winces, but answers the question I wish I could take back. "I didn't. There was this … incident, with the town fountain … it wasn't really even Max's fault. She made a mistake. Max is a really good sister," El insists. "And she races, too, you know, but bikes. She's amazing on a track. You'd like her."

"Sure. I like her sister," I say with a boldness I do not see coming.

El blushes furiously. "Um, thanks. But um, my parents kicked her out. She had to leave, and she's been moving around ever since."

"Oh. Okay… ."

"Anyway." El clears her throat, back to business once more. "I got this postcard from her today." She pulls it out from her bag, holding it up to show me the Greetings from Boston printed across the front.

"Looks like she's in Boston?"

"Boston is a huge city. I can't just show up downtown and call her name in the middle of the Common. I'll never find her without an address."

I consider El again, noting the way her hands clench the desk as she looks hopefully at me. Her tough-girl vibe is gone, and she just looks vulnerable and sad and lost.

All feelings I know too well.

Wishing I could give her a hug but not wanting to be that kind of weirdo, I stand up and go to the filing cabinet. "I don't think Grandma Jolene keeps tabs on every employee she's ever had. Especially after they're gone." I rifle through the top drawer—the only one that's unlocked—hoping I find a folder that says "Maxine Blum" on it.

El drums her fingers on Grandma Jolene's desk. "This is different. Jolene liked Max—she helped her out a lot when Max came back to Dell's Hollow. They were closer than just a boss and employee."

I close the filing cabinet drawer. "There's nothing in here and the rest of the drawers are locked. Sorry." And I really am. I would've loved to see a smile on El's face as I handed her a folder with her sister's contact info.

El lets out a sigh. "It's fine. I was just … hoping. Well, maybe you've seen a racing jacket around? I have a picture of Max wearing it." She pulls up a picture on her phone of a girl with hair a shade lighter than her own and thick black eyebrows.

"That's Max?" I ask, as El hands me her phone.

El nods.

Max is pretty, in an aggressive way. She stands with her hands on her hips in front of a bike. Her motorcycle jacket immediately brings visions of Letty from Fast Furious to mind.

"I wish I'd seen that jacket lying around," I admit. "I'd probably be wearing it now if I had, summer heat be damned." My eyes linger on the asymmetrical zipper, the curved stitching, and the hood at the back. It's the perfect badass don't-mess-with-me jacket and far cooler than my green coveralls.

"Don't," says El, her voice sharp.

Because I'm an ass when I'm nervous, I laugh at her super-serious tone. "Relax. I promise I'm not going to steal your sister's jacket. I've not even seen it. Do you want to stick around and ask Grandma Jolene about it?"

El glances at the clock above Jolene's desk. "I can't. I'm on my way to work. But maybe you could ask her for me? I can stop back by the shop tomorrow. Or I'll be at Putt by the Pond till my shift ends at seven, if you find out anything."

"I love that place. Maybe I'll stop by for racing sometime." I've been avoiding it since we moved back because Putt was where Mom and I used to race karts when I was a kid, but maybe it's time. Time to see if I can still race a car. Or at least pretend I'm still on the right track. Or at least time to forget myself and my troubles in the roar of an engine and the smell of rubber on the road. Even if it's just hokey go-karts at a local track.

"I never know where I'll be working," El says. "Maybe I'll see you there."

"Maybe you will. And don't worry; I'll ask Grandma Jolene about Max."

El nods, then holds out her hand for her phone. Which I'm still holding after looking at Max's picture. Like the world's biggest dork.

"Right, sorry. Here." I start to hand it back, but then I pause. "Want me to put my number in there? Just in case we don't bump into each other again?"

El slides a quick glance my way and our eyes meet for a moment. "I never take a girl's number until at least a first date."

I blush redder than Jolene's heels at that. At least I know El's into girls, but that doesn't mean she's into me. Quickly, I shove the phone toward her. "Right, of course. Sorry."

"I'm teasing," she says. "But that's okay. I know where to find you. And thanks for helping me look for Max."

Still embarrassed by nearly giving her my number, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind, which is, of course, a Fast Furious quote because I'm still thinking of motorcycle jackets and pretty girls and feeling generally overwhelmed by the smell of coconut and motor oil. "No worries. Where you ride, I ride."

El's eyes widen at my words. "Furious 7, nice. Love a girl who can quote Letty Ortiz."

"You have no idea," I say, trying for a laugh and ending up with a small, weird cough. "Furious superfan here."

"I bet I could beat you at FF trivia." A grin pulls at the sides of El's mouth.

"Not a chance. I'm positive I could beat you at that and at go-karts."

"Oh, that's a bet I'll take."

El walks away with a wave, and once she's gone, I collapse into Grandma Jolene's office chair, my heart going faster than Dom Toretto's signature 1970 black Charger.