The word *interfering* struck her harder than anything else. She was used to deciding which questions could be asked, not being told that her voice had become an obstacle.
Then her husband arrived.
Victor Hargrove parked a dark SUV behind the second patrol car. He was a tall man with a tired face and an expensive watch. He took in the officers, the cameras, his wife at the curb, Dylan’s red hands, and my car. For a long time he didn’t speak.
Finally he walked over to me.
“Malcolm,” he said. “I just came from work. What happened?”
I pointed at the car. “Your son did that.”
Victor stared at the yellow hood. I saw him recognize the scale of the damage even before anyone mentioned a dollar amount.
He looked toward Dylan. “Did you?”
Dylan’s lips moved. No words came.
Victor closed his eyes for a moment. Then he asked the officers what procedure would follow and where Dylan would be taken. He did not threaten anyone. He did not demand a favor. I could see the effort it took him not to turn on his wife in front of the street.
An officer returned the paint can to an evidence bag. Another photographed my garage, the drive, and the positions of the cameras. The patrol cars eventually pulled away with Dylan in the back of one of them. Vivienne watched without saying a word.
That was the first silence I’d heard from her that wasn’t strategic.
When the street emptied, Arthur stayed on his porch with his tablet. Priya crossed over, carrying a bottle of water. She handed it to me without trying to say anything profound.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Ask me tomorrow.”
She nodded. “Fair.”
I looked at the car. The paint was beginning to dry. A smell like chemicals and metal hung in the warm morning air.
I had won nothing. Not yet.
All I had was an accurate record of something terrible, and a long expensive road I hadn’t chosen.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN — The Estimate
By afternoon the Lamborghini had been placed on an enclosed transport headed to a specialty restoration facility. I stood at the curb as the truck doors closed, and for a second I felt irrationally guilty, as if I’d somehow failed to protect a living thing.
Theo, my paint specialist, had come to the house after Marisol told him what happened. He walked slowly around the car before the transport crew loaded it. He didn’t touch a single panel.
“This isn’t a wash,” he said.
“I know.”
“Anybody tells you to try solvent, hang up.”
“I know.”
He looked at me. “I know you know. I’m saying it because somebody’s going to offer you a cheap fix and make it worse.”
My insurer assigned a specialist adjuster named Grace Lin. She asked for original photographs, police report numbers, maintenance records, and the documents supporting the custom finish. I had everything. Business had taught me to keep an orderly archive even for things I loved.
Grace reviewed the file without promising a number. She explained that a vehicle with custom work required specialized estimates, that hidden damage could be found once panels were removed, and that repairs would need to match the agreed policy provisions. She also explained the concept of subrogation: if the company paid a covered claim, it could pursue responsible parties to recover its loss.
