Elijah stayed out of their way.

That decision angered some of his own people.

At the police station, an assistant chief called him. “Sir, the officers are uncomfortable. They don’t want to look like they’re investigating their boss.”

“Then they shouldn’t,” Elijah replied. “State investigators handle it.”

“Council’s already calling.”

“What are they saying?”

“That you were accused of stealing a collector car. Some council members only heard the first half of the story.”

“Then tell them there is an active outside investigation and that I won’t discuss it.”

“You could make one call and clear this up.”

“If I use one call to clear my own name, what does a person without my title use?”

The assistant chief had no answer.

By afternoon, a cropped video was moving through local social media. It showed Elijah standing beside the Mustang while Vivien shouted about stolen property. The clip ended before Rivera recognized him. Logan’s account captioned it: New neighbor gets caught with a stolen classic car. Watch what happens next.

Within the hour, people Elijah had never met were discussing whether a police chief ought to be suspended. A radio host asked why the department had not seized the vehicle. Someone posted his home address.

Vivien’s story was no longer a private neighborhood dispute.

It had become a public accusation.

Sandra arrived that evening carrying groceries she insisted he didn’t need to pay for.

“You’re going to need dinner,” she said. “People forget that when they’re busy defending their entire existence.”

Elijah told her about the forged signature.

She sank into a kitchen chair. “Your father?”

He nodded.

“That’s monstrous.”

“It’s also precise,” he said. “Somebody didn’t just invent a theft. Somebody made documents. Somebody filed them.”

Sandra set down her grocery bag.

“Then the question isn’t why Vivien hates your car.”

“No.”

“It’s who stands to make money if the car vanishes.”

CHAPTER 10: THE PRICE OF LOOKING AWAY

The following Monday, Sandra brought Elijah to meet Marlene Ellis, a sixty-nine-year-old widow who lived two streets away. Marlene’s house had neatly painted shutters and a mailbox held together with a carefully placed piece of duct tape. Her living room smelled of cinnamon tea.