His father should have seen the house.

Elias Grant had died six months earlier. Cancer had taken him with a speed that offended Elijah’s sense of how the world ought to work. One autumn, his father had been complaining about expensive spark plugs. By winter, he had needed help climbing the porch steps. By spring, Elijah was deciding which suit to bury him in.

The 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429 was the one thing Elijah had been unable to put in storage.

They had rebuilt it together over five years. On evenings after work, Elias handed his son wrenches across the open engine bay and explained how a machine could tell you what was wrong if you listened instead of immediately reaching for a bigger tool. They replaced rusted sections, straightened damaged brackets, traced wiring faults that had survived three previous owners, and argued cheerfully about whether a car that beautiful deserved to be driven in the rain.

Elias had a notebook for every stage of the restoration. He drew diagrams of the mounting points. He photographed numbers stamped into metal. He recorded where parts came from and what they cost. When Elijah teased him about keeping better records than a courtroom clerk, Elias always gave the same answer.

“Paint can lie, son. Paper can lie. Metal usually remembers.”

The Mustang’s Grabber Blue finish was so deep that clouds seemed to float beneath its clear coat. The engine did not sound refined. It sounded alive, impatient, willing to wake everyone on the street if Elijah let it. Every time he started it, he remembered his father leaning over the fender with a light held between his teeth.

When Elias died, the will named Elijah as the car’s sole beneficiary. A routine title transfer should have followed. Instead, the state vehicle office sent a notice about an unresolved duplicate-record inquiry. The probate attorney advised patience; old collector cars often had messy documentation. Elijah kept the will, the registration, and his father’s restoration receipts in a fireproof folder.

There was no reason yet to suspect the delay was anything more than paperwork.

He had driven the Mustang only three times since moving into Maple Ridge. On the third, a woman in a navy blazer stepped in front of his driveway with a binder under her arm.

“You must be the new owner,” she said, smiling without warmth. “Vivien Hartman. Homeowners’ association president.”

“Elijah Grant. Nice to meet you.”