“But I saw you first and I let him work on the last car, so I get first dibs. Don’t let him convince you otherwise. He’ll try to steal this from me. I heard your baby when you pulled in.” She pets the hood of the car like it’s a bleeding puppy in need of medical care. “I’m betting spark plugs. Let me guess, the engine sputters while driving? Sometimes stops working or just won’t catch when you try to start it?”

Jesus, the girl’s a walking car encyclopedia. Violet and I share a look and she raises her eyebrows with a faint smile. Yeah, she doesn’t know what to think either.

“Yes,” Violet answers. “To all that. This is my car.”

I catch the way Violet’s voice cracked on my, but I’m proud she’s accepting that her father would have wanted her to feel like his car is now hers.

The blonde extends her hand to Violet. “I’m Rachel, and you are?”

Violet accepts it. “I’m Violet and this is my boyfriend, Chevy.”

I can’t help the smile. First time I’ve heard her call me that in months. Rachel beams. “I love that name.”

“Thanks.” The way this girl is talking, she’ll have the Chevelle turned upside down, inside out, then fixed before I can get a chance to ask about this Isaiah Walker. She mentioned him, but I’d like more than a mention. I need to meet him, talk to him.

“I’m here because of a recommendation,” I say.

Rachel tears her gaze away from the Chevelle and looks at me for the first time. She goes on the verge of death white. Even Violet moves toward her as she must believe the girl is going to pass out and crack her head on the concrete floor.

I throw my hands up in the air in a show of submission. “Are you okay?”

Rachel stumbles back as if I’m holding a gun and my heart picks up speed as I scan the room, then glance over my shoulder to see if someone is holding us up. There’s nothing. Rachel’s back hits a workbench and she places her hand over her chest as if that can help her catch her breath. “Who are you?”

With the way her gaze is locked on me, there’s no doubt she’s lost interest in the Chevelle and Violet. “My name is Chevy McKinley.”

“McKinley?” she repeats in a whisper.

A door farther back squeaks open and a large guy comes stalking in. He’s tattoos, earrings, and he tinkers with a car part in his hand. “I pulled this from one of the junk cars in the back. We’re going to have to mess with it first to get it to work. Hate having to buy a new part. Logan’s been short on money and—”

“Isaiah,” Rachel says, and his head snaps up at the shaky sound of her voice. He’s switched from relaxed to dangerous in less than a second. He now holds the car part in his hand as if he’d use it as a weapon.

He surveys the room just like I would, and when his eyes land on me, I know his stomach is dropping, his mind is stalling out and then it feels like something significant in the universe has died and we’re experiencing the aftermath of the pulsating quake. I know this from the way his eyes blink, from his stunned expression, and because it’s exactly how I’m feeling.

In front of me is dark hair shaved close to his head, eyes that are gray, a foreboding man of muscle and height, tattoos and earrings, but the important part is his face. Except for his eye color, this guy is a replica of my father. Spitting image of the pictures I’ve seen. Some of my mom sneaked into my genetics, but I’m a McKinley, and if this guy has looked into a mirror, he knows he’s staring back at a part of him.

Rachel slowly walks over to Isaiah as if she’s scared to spook him. “He says he’s a McKinley.”

Recognition flashes over his face and my gut twists that he somehow knows my last name.

“Chevy,” Violet says. “I think we all need to sit down.”

“What’s wrong with the car?” Isaiah asks, ignoring Violet.

“Spark plugs,” answers Rachel. He looks over at her and holds her gaze. Just like me and Violet, they have an entire conversation without saying a word.

“Start the car,” Isaiah says. “I want to listen to it.”

“Tell me how you know my last name,” I push.

“You walked into my garage, so I’m feeling like you already know the answer. As I see it, you’ve got two options—leave or start the car.”

I pull Violet’s keys from my pocket and keep the car door open as I start the engine. He calls for me to pop the hood. I do, and after a minute of him asking me to press the gas and then to take my foot off, he tells me to cut the engine.

“Spark plugs,” he confirms as he keeps his eyes glued to the insides of the car. “My mother told me James McKinley was my father. Did you know him?”

Was. He’s aware James is dead. “Not personally.” Everything inside me warps and it’s damn painful. “He died before my birth, and according to my mother, he was my father, too.”

“Ain’t life a bitch,” he mumbles.

True. I have a brother and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Scratch that—I do and it tastes bitter like betrayal. “You have a family. A huge family. They’ll want to know about you.”

“What did you come here for?” Isaiah asks. “From the look on your face, it wasn’t me.”

He’s right, but telling him about the Riot, about the police, about everything is a risk. “A detective told me to come here and ask for you. He knows I’m looking for answers about who my father was before he died.”