Chapter 6 - Echoes in the Workshop
For the first time in three years, I woke up without a knot of dread in my stomach.
The morning light filtering through the lace curtains of my childhood bedroom didn't illuminate Derek’s scowling face, nor did it carry the anticipation of an angry footstep in the hallway.
Downstairs, the rhythmic, metallic clang of Dad working in the shop acted as a soothing heartbeat. *Clank. Ratchet-click. Clank.*
I washed my face in the small bathroom. The swelling had subsided significantly, though the deep greenish-yellow discoloration around my cheekbone remained—a fading badge of the violence I had escaped. I tied my hair back into a practical ponytail, pulled on a pair of old denim jeans and a flannel shirt, and walked down the back staircase into the garage.
The shop was vast, illuminated by high skylights cut into the corrugated metal roof. Three cars sat on hydraulic lifts: a classic 1967 Mustang Fastback, an old Chevy pickup, and a sleek Mercedes with its transmission dropped onto a rolling dolly.
Dad was underneath the Mustang, a work lamp clipped to the chassis, his boots sticking out from the undercarriage.
"Morning, Dad," I called over the low hum of an electric fan.
The boots shifted, and Dad slid out on his creeper, wiping his brow with the back of an oily forearm. He smiled—a genuine, unshadowed smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"Morning, Em. Coffee's fresh in the breakroom. There's pan dulce from the bakery on the table."
"I don't just want coffee, Dad," I said, walking over to the tool bench. I picked up a 10mm socket wrench, feeling the solid, honest weight of the chrome-vanadium steel. "I want to work."
Dad sat up on the creeper, looking at me thoughtfully. "You used to be pretty good with a ledger before you went off to university. And God knows my billing system hasn't been updated since 2004."
"I can do the books," I said. "I can catalog your inventory, digitize your work orders, and handle the parts suppliers. You’re losing money on late invoices, Dad. I noticed last night."
A proud, quiet warmth spread across my father’s face. "The office is in the corner. Desk is dusty, computer's ancient, but it works. It’s all yours, sweetheart."
For the next four weeks, the workshop became my sanctuary.
While Marcus Evans waged a silent, lethal war in the marble corridors of the state prosecutor's office, I rebuilt my life piece by piece amidst the smell of gasoline, lacquer, and motor oil.
I built an automated invoicing system for Bennett’s Auto Repair. I renegotiated contracts with local parts distributors, saving Dad nearly twenty percent on bulk orders. When the mechanics—men who had known me since I was a scraped-knee toddler running around the garage—needed someone to translate technical service manuals from German and Japanese for imported engines, I translated them with fluent precision.
My hands stopped shaking. The hypervigilance that had made me jump at every dropped spoon or car backfire began to dissolve, replaced by a grounded, practical competence.
Yet the shadow of Las Arboledas had not disappeared completely.
One rainy Tuesday evening, after the mechanics had clocked out and the shop doors were rolled down and padlocked, I stayed late in the small office, cross-referencing an inventory sheet. Dad had run down to the hardware store two blocks away to pick up industrial welding wire.
The only light came from the desk lamp and the amber streetlights filtering through the frosted office windows.
Suddenly, a sound outside the front gate caught my attention.
*Crunch.*
Tires rolling slowly over gravel in the alleyway.
I froze, the pen hovering over the paper. The familiar, icy prickle of fear raced down my spine.
I clicked off the desk lamp, plunging the office into darkness, and crept toward the front window, peeling back the edge of the aluminum blinds.
Parked across the narrow street, under the dripping branches of a jacaranda tree, was Derek’s silver BMW.
The headlights were switched off, but the interior dash lights cast a sickly blue glow over his face. He wasn't wearing his neck brace now. He sat behind the wheel, staring intently at the second-floor windows of Dad’s apartment, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel in a furious, erratic rhythm.
He was violating the protective order. He was here, outside my sanctuary, hunting.
My breath came in shallow, panicked gasps. My hand instinctively reached for my throat. For a second, the old paralysis gripped me—the terrifying belief that Derek was inescapable, that he would eventually drag me back into that suffocating house.
Then, I looked down at the desk. Beside my keyboard lay Marcus Evans's business card, and right beside it was the emergency dispatch number Officer Morales had given me.
*No,* I thought. *Not this time.*
I didn't cower. I picked up my phone, stepped into the shadow of the window, and dialed the direct line.
"Officer Morales? This is Emily Bennett. Derek Vance is parked in front of Bennett’s Auto Repair on Maple Avenue. He has been here for ten minutes, watching the building. He is violating the court order."
"Stay inside, Emily," Morales’s voice crackled through the speaker, urgent and firm. "Two patrol units are four blocks away. Keep your doors locked."
I held the phone to my ear and watched through the blinds.
Derek put the car in gear, creeping forward a few feet as if preparing to approach the pedestrian gate.
Then, out of the darkness of the cross street, two police interceptors roared into the alley, their high-beam headlights blinding the BMW, their sirens erupting in an ear-splitting wail.
Derek slammed on the brakes. Officers poured out of the cruisers, service weapons drawn, shouting commands: *"Turn off the engine! Hands where we can see them! Step out of the vehicle!"*
I watched as Derek, the immaculate, untouchable corporate executive, was yanked from the driver's seat by two burly officers, slammed face-first against the wet hood of his prized BMW, and forced into handcuffs in the pouring rain.
He looked toward the dark window of the workshop, his face contorted in humiliation and rage.
I stepped out from behind the blinds, stood tall in the glass, and met his gaze through the rain.
I didn't flinch. I didn't hide.
May you like
I watched him being shoved into the back of the police car, the blue flashing lights washing over the puddles, until the siren faded into the stormy night.
***
