When I go to back out into the street in the morning, there’s a pool of fluid in my driveway where my car was just parked, and although I know nothing about cars, I know that’s not standard. The best part is I have no idea where a mechanic’s shop is located.

My phone call to Lynn goes to voicemail, so I have to settle for the next best thing. Mr. Kirkwood’s eyebrows nearly disappear up into his hairline when I walk back into the General Store, and he claps his leathery hands.

“Back so soon to share your applesauce recipe?”

Shit. I did not account for him remembering my false promises. I shrug regretfully. “Left it at home again. Silly me. But I do have another question for you.”

“Sure, let’s hear it.”

“If I were having car troubles, where would be the best place to go?”

“Uh oh, that doesn’t sound too good. Not an emergency, I hope?” he asks concernedly. I swallow down the sigh that’s begging to be let out. This guy plays hardball. He could probably turn a request for toilet paper into a lengthy conversation.

“Not that I know of, but I should really get it looked at as soon as possible.”

“Well, do you know what’s the matter with it?”

I shrug, and he looks off into space like the answer will appear out of thin air.

“There was a puddle in my driveway when I left earlier,” I offer.

“Hmm. Might be a cracked radiator. But you’re in luck. I have a buddy who owns an auto place just off the square. Called Henderson’s. Just head that-a-way and you’ll see it on your left.”

The instructions seem simple enough, but Mr. Kirkwood escorts me out onto the sidewalk and reiterates them, pointing and making sure I can see the top of the red sign for Henderson’s, just over the brick facades of the other buildings.

“Thank you, Mr. Kirkwood, I really appreciate it.”

He waves me off, but I think I hear him shout “Call me Raymond!” as I’m backing out of my parking spot.

Whatever is wrong with my car, it must not be detrimental because I head “that-a-way” and make it to Henderson’s intact. Inside, a small, balding man is on the phone behind the counter, scrolling and clicking on a desktop computer while he speaks. Scroll scroll. Click. Tap tap tap. The red nametag on his chest tells me his name is Fred. As impersonalized kind of guy for an impersonalized kind of place.

“What can I do you for?”

I look up, and Fred is staring back at me. If I’m not mistaken, his eyes seem to wander a bit. I guess that’s what I should’ve expected. I dressed for a coffee date, in a swingy t-shirt dress and ankle boots, and now I’m sitting in a place that looks like it has never once received female attention.

“There’s something wrong with my car. There was fluid in my driveway when I pulled out this morning, and I was won—”

Just then, another man pops his head through the dingy gray door behind the counter. “Sorry, Mr. Fred, ma’am. Could you come out here for a sec?”

“Can it wait? I was just about to help the lady here,” Fred says, exasperation evident from his tone.

The technician looks between the garage and Fred, shrugging helplessly. “Not unless you’re willing to deal with Mrs. Weller when she comes down here asking why her car isn’t ready yet.”

Fred emits a long sigh. “I’m sorry, ma’am, do you mind?” he asks with an apologetic, “what can ya do?” kind of shrug.

I smile thinly, and he disappears.

I’m left alone with only the far-off sounds of machinery from the garage and a muted, scratchy TV program for all of thirty seconds before the front door comes swinging open. I don’t make eye contact with whoever it is that’s just entered, keeping my face pleasantly blank and studying the smudges on the tile. Through my periphery, I see it’s a man. Sandy hair, tall and broad-shouldered. He occupies a lot of space in this small room. His brown, scuffed boots are as far as I let my eyes travel, and only because they land so heavily on the tile. He approaches the counter and leans forward on his toes, briefly, then rocks backward and turns toward me. Toes pointed my way, he clears his throat.

“What’d they get you for?” he asks in a voice that’s pleasantly deep and flavored with the southern accent I keep hearing. I realize I’m still staring at his shoes when he rocks back on his heels again.

“Cracked radiator.”

“Nice to meet you, Cracked Radiator. I’m Dane,” he says, his tone amused, and he crosses the room and claims a chair. It doesn’t escape me that he left two seats between us instead of the customary one. I’m a little surprised. The way my first encounter with Mr. Kirkwood went, you’d think everyone in this town would skip over the polite social customs to sit right on top of you, chatting their way over to your place by dinnertime.

Social graces or not, the confidence in his tone trips one of my internal alarms. If he thinks that weak attempt at a joke will get my name out of me, he can rethink his strategy. Better yet, forget it entirely. I just offer him a purse-lipped smile that could mean either “nice to meet you” or “fuck off.”

“Fred say what he was doing out there?” he asks, and before I know it, I’m looking up at him. He has the strangest eyes I’ve ever seen. They look almost alive, dynamic, with more shades of blue and green than I can comprehend. That’s a problem because while I’m trying to determine whether his eyes are more Caribbean or Mediterranean, I end up staring at him for a few seconds over my limit.

I refocus on a spot on the wall across the room. “Busy with a Mrs. Weller, apparently. I assume it will take a while.”

“Thanks for the tip. Mind if I give you one?”

I lift one shoulder noncommittally.

“Fred charges an arm and a leg for labor. He’ll rob you blind and gawk at you while doing it. You’d be better off going somewhere else.”

Ahh, a know-it-all, every town has one. Little does he know, I’m not just some aloof out-of-towner who will allow herself to be conned into some backwoods chop-shop. When I don’t respond, he just snort-laughs—a suit yourself kind of sound—and leans his elbows on his knees.

It is so silent I can hear the clock ticking on the wall. Not awkward at all.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

The question is so decisive, it’s not much of a question at all. “What gave it away?”

“The you-not-being-from-around-here thing.”

“Clever of you. No, I’m not.”

He waits a beat. “Which explains you being here.”

I sense that he’s fishing for information, but I’m committed. The less people know about me, the better. I imagine a thread forming between me and each person I meet. Over time, those threads cross and interweave, so much so that you can’t break or even touch one thread without affecting another. Like a web. Well, my own web was shaken so badly that I don’t want to bother with getting anyone caught up in my new one.

So, I just say, “Sure.” Stay out of my web, kid.

“Being that we’re so openly exchanging tips, I think it’s only fair that I leave you with a good one.” When I don’t bite, he continues. I hope he enjoys one-sided conversation. “There’s a little place off the highway, northeast of town. Cross Automotive. They’ll set you up for a fraction of the cost.” Another vague smile is all I give him in answer.

The clock ticks away the minutes on the wall, and then there’s shouting coming from the garage. I stand up and make my way to the window behind the counter, looking through. Fred is involved in an animated conversation with an elderly woman with rollers in her hair. Well, animated on her part. Fred is just standing there, his hands limp at his sides, nodding in an understanding manner with his lips pressed into a thin line. Mrs. Weller is letting him have it.

I glance back at Dane, and he smirks. Leaning over to grab a sheet of paper from the copy machine, along with a pen from Fred’s cup, I grudgingly approach him. When I hold them out, he only raises his eyebrows expectantly, like he can’t understand what I’m asking of him, or maybe he just wants me to say it aloud.

“As you’ve already guessed, I’m not from here. I don’t know my way around, and I’d rather not go searching ‘up the highway northeast of town’ for a place I don’t even know exists. So please, give me directions if you mean to, or admit that you were only trying to pick up the lonely chick at the auto shop.”

Dane studies me for a few seconds, his stare one that makes me want to look away, but also makes it impossible to. Because I don’t back down from a challenge, and wow, those eyes are definitely more of a Mediterranean shade. The only thing that detracts from them is his scruffy, lumberjack beard. It could use a trim. Or, better yet, a straight razor. He takes the pen and paper, grazing my hand with his fingers. After scrawling a few lines, he hands the paper back.

“There you go, Cracked Radiator. Tell them I sent you.”

“And your name is Dane . . .” I trail off, wondering if a last name is even necessary around here. With those eyes and those shoulders, I assume it isn’t.

“Just Dane. They’ll know.”

I give him a curt nod and collect my purse and jacket, but something stops me in my tracks on the way out the door. “Thank you, Just Dane.” I look back long enough to see him nod politely.

After following most of the directions, something tells me I’ve been sent to a backwoods chop-shop. It could be the unintelligible sign hanging off the rusted gate, or the junk yard of old automobiles parked in the field out front. I’m pretty sure there’s an old school bus in the distance, and the miniscule shred of doubt only comes from the fact that it’s so eaten up by rust it’s no longer yellow. It’s definitely a bus of some sort, though. I press my foot further on the gas, making a mental note to pick up some pepper spray. Or a Taser. A gun would be more useful, but I’ve never shot one.

I manage to decipher Dane’s directions while rolling through the gate, but all that’s left is You’ll see the shop after the trees. I steer between two clumps of red oaks and follow the drive as it curves to the left, and just as I round the bend, the “shop” comes into sight. It’s a metal building with two huge doors rolled up, leaving gaping openings. There are cars inside, so I must be in the right place, and I see a man straighten up from leaning over the hood of one.

I park in front of a bay and get out, glad I don’t have to track anyone else down to the soundtrack of dirty rap music. When the guy comes out to greet me, it strikes me suddenly how much he favors Dane, in both features and stature. It’s to my relief that I discover his eyes are coffee-brown. Not quite as alluring as those ocean-blues.

“You lost?” he asks, an easy grin crossing his face. He’s not wearing what I would consider “mechanic’s attire,” but this doesn’t look like a typical mechanic’s shop.

“Not if this is Cross Automotive,” I answer.

“If you know about Cross Auto, you must know the secret password,” he responds with a wink. He’s quick with his charm, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Is there something I’m doing to provoke them? I sincerely doubt it.

“Umm, Dane sent me?” I offer, shrugging. I hope that means something to him.

“Ahh, another one bites the dust.”

“Oh no, another one got preyed upon at Henderson’s while she was minding her own business,” I correct him. Who the hell is this guy, and who is Dane, really?

“Typical Dane. What exactly do you need done?”

“I’m not sure. Someone said I might have a cracked radiator? There was a puddle in my driveway.”

“All right, let’s have a look at you, then.” When my eyes dart up to his, he jabs a thumb toward my SUV. “The car, I mean,” he says, chuckling.

“Okay.”

It doesn’t take long for me to be properly diagnosed with a cracked radiator. I guess conversations with Mr. Kirkwood have their benefits. I’m told my radiator will need to be replaced, and it won’t be completed until tomorrow.

“Is it safe to drive home?” I ask. After all, telling me I have a cracked radiator is the equivalent of speaking gibberish.

“You run the risk of overheating your engine, and then you’d be broken down on the side of the road,” he says simply.

Great. Breaking down in the middle-of-nowhere Tennessee and giving a chainsaw-wielding murderer a crack at me is just what I need.

He plucks a set of keys from a hook near the door of what looks to be an office. “I can give you a ride.”

I glance around the shop, wondering if there’s anyone around whom I can transmit silent pleas of help to, and the man notices. He just holds out the keys. “If you’re worried about me killing you or something, go ahead and take it. It’s the black one out back. Hope you know how to drive stick.” That he knows I have no other choice but to accept is evident in his tone.

I certainly don’t know how to drive stick.

“I would appreciate a ride home,” I finally say.

“Great. And my name is Trey, by the way, in case you want to text it to somebody as an insurance policy or whatever. I’m Dane’s wiser, better-looking older brother, if you couldn’t already tell.”

Ah. That explains the physical similarities, but the resemblance stops there. I just smile blankly and follow him.

Unfortunately, revealing my address is unavoidable. I’ve only begun to describe my house and he’s already nodding like he knows exactly where it is. Of course—the Miller house. Lynn said it like everyone should know the previous inhabitants.

I follow him through the shop, trying and failing to mask my surprise when he stops at a sleek Mercedes SUV. Not what I would expect from a mechanic. Shallow as it may be, the luxuriousness of the car soothes some of my worry. A serial killer wouldn’t drive a car like this, right? They would drive something more generic.

“I didn’t get your name back there,” Trey says, breaking the silence once we’re gliding down the highway.

“Rae,” I answer reluctantly.

“Nice to meet you, Rae. And if you think about it, you probably pose more of a threat to me. You could’ve lured me out of my shop and to my death, being a pretty lady like you, and I wouldn’t have even known your name.” He smiles at me, and though I may be rusty, I catch on that he’s trying to flirt, but the conversation grosses me out. Why are we talking about this?

“Well, I’m not into killing people. Too messy.”

“Too messy.” He laughs. “Touché.”

He seems to grasp that I’m not a fan of small talk, and we make it to my house without any more questions. I pop the door handle as soon as the car rolls to a stop, prepared to say a quick thank you over my shoulder before skittering into the house, but he’s already leaning halfway over the center console, poised to speak.

“Seeing as how you’re carless, how about I have someone drop yours off tomorrow?”

I can’t tell if this is some underhanded way to bury me further in debt to him or something, so I bite my lip, struggling with indecision. “I wouldn’t want to impose. I can find a ride to the shop.” And then, at the flash of skepticism in his eyes, I say, “I know people.”

“You know people.” He nods in mock approval. “You wouldn’t be imposing. We’ll just drop it in your driveway and go. No problem.”

“Don’t I owe you something?”

Trey shrugs, an over-rehearsed act that’s made to look endearing. “I’m sure we’ll catch up.”

“All right,” I relent because it’s the only way I can see myself getting into the house, and him out of my driveway.

“It’s settled.”

I get the impression that this is a man who’s used to getting his way. If so, he better prepare to be disappointed.

“Have a good night, Rae.”

I shut the door in response.