“That’s right.”

“Can I sit in it?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

Logan ran a hand along the fender. “I have my license. Give me the keys for ten minutes. I won’t leave the neighborhood.”

“No.”

The boy blinked. People evidently did not answer him in one syllable very often.

“You haven’t even seen me drive.”

“I don’t need to.”

“My dad can cover whatever happens.”

“The car isn’t for sale, and it isn’t for loan.”

Logan studied Elijah’s face, searching for a sign that the answer was negotiable. When he found none, irritation replaced charm.

“My family practically built this neighborhood.”

“I’m glad you like living here.”

“I’m saying my dad pays more in association dues than you probably pay in taxes.”

Elijah laid the polishing cloth on his workbench. “That doesn’t buy him the keys to my car.”

Logan’s lips parted. He had the expression of a boy who had pushed against a door and discovered it was made of concrete.

“Mom will hear about this.”

“She can hear about it from you.”

Twenty minutes later, Vivien arrived in a navy blazer with the HOA emblem on the lapel. She demanded an apology for the way Elijah had supposedly embarrassed her son. Gregory followed at a distance, looking at his phone.

“He only wanted a harmless drive,” Vivien said.

“He’s seventeen. The answer was no.”

“We’re a community, Mr. Grant. People share here.”

“Then he’ll understand when I say I am sharing a boundary.”

Gregory looked up at that. A small, unwilling smile crossed his face.

Vivien saw it and hardened. “I’ll be examining whether this vehicle complies with neighborhood standards.”

“Feel free to send any concern in writing.”

“You think paperwork protects you?”

“Usually helps everyone remember what happened.”

She left with the deliberate speed of someone afraid a second conversation might reveal an absence of actual authority.

But Gregory lingered at the end of the driveway, studying the Mustang more carefully than his wife had.

“That’s a rare one,” he said. “Still have the original body identification?”

Elijah looked at him. “My father kept the records.”

“Smart man. There are a lot of fakes out there.”

It sounded like harmless small talk.

Later, Elijah would remember that Gregory had not asked about the engine, the paint, or the price.

He had asked about the identifying numbers.

CHAPTER 4: A THOUSAND PAPER CUTS

The first warning arrived Monday: the Mustang’s paint was “incompatible with the visual calm of Maple Ridge Estates.” The second accused Elijah of excessive engine noise on a day when the car had not been started. A third described the Mustang as a potential commercial racing vehicle.