“No.”
“I’m taking evidence’s side.”
“I have photographs.”
“You have suspicion.”
“It’s my part.”
“Probably.”
She hated that word.
“Stop saying probably.”
“Then prove it.”
The CEO walked away furious.
An hour later she returned carrying archival photographs.
She placed them in front of him.
The distributor housing showed a unique casting scar.
The auction photographs showed the same.
The Single Dad studied both.
Then nodded.
“Now I’d say it’s yours.”
The CEO smiled coldly.
“Thank you.”
“That smile is terrifying.”
“It should be.”
Police and civil investigators became involved.
More parts surfaced.
The former Collection Manager denied theft.
He claimed her father authorized sales.
No written authorizations existed.
Then the old hidden ignition system became important again.
The Single Dad discovered it did more than disable the car.
The circuit included a tiny mechanical counter.
Each bypass attempt moved the counter.
The CEO stared.
“Why?”
“Tamper record.”
“How many?”
The Single Dad read it.
“Seventeen.”
“Five years of mechanics.”
“Maybe.”
He compared old service dates.
The counter had already registered six events before her father died.
The CEO became still.
“Someone tried to bypass it while he was alive.”
“Yes.”
That was likely why the system existed.
Her father suspected unauthorized access to the car.
The hidden lock was not paranoia.
It was evidence preservation.
The note became clearer.
When someone finally understands what this car is hiding, let him finish what we started.
Not merely start the engine.
Finish an investigation.
The mentor had died two years before the CEO’s father.
Whatever they planned ended with them.
Until now.
The Single Dad contacted his mentor’s widow.
He had not spoken to her in years.
She remembered the Ferrari.
Not details.
But she remembered a sealed envelope.
Her husband had told her:
“If the gray GTO ever comes back, give this to whoever recognizes the relay mark.”
She still had it.
The Single Dad drove two hours to retrieve it.
The CEO insisted on coming.
He objected.
She came anyway.
They rode in his old pickup.
The CEO stared at the cracked dashboard.
“You drive this voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“Air conditioning?”
“Mostly.”
“What does mostly mean?”
“It works when the truck is moving.”
She looked horrified.
“You own a business empire?”
“No.”
“So this is acceptable?”
“Yes.”
She rolled down the window.
The Single Dad smiled.
“You look offended by mechanical democracy.”
She glared.
Halfway there, they stopped for coffee.
No assistants.
No security visibly nearby.
No mechanics.
Just them.
The CEO sat opposite him in a roadside café.
For the first time, they talked about him.
Not the car.
He had been married.
His wife died from a sudden aneurysm when their daughter was five.
He had been working as a restoration engineer then.
Travel.
Long days.
Client cars across multiple states.