Chapter 1: The Showroom Floor
The automatic glass doors of Prestige Motors slid open with a soft whoosh, releasing a blast of aggressively chilled air into the humid afternoon. Arthur Vance stepped inside, instantly feeling out of place.
He paused on the welcome mat, looking down at his boots. They were heavy, steel-toed work boots, caked in the dried, red clay of his ranch. He gave them a quick scuff against the carpet, leaving a faint trail of dust. He adjusted the strap of his denim overalls, the brass buckle dulled by fifty years of sweat and sunlight.
Arthur wasn’t a man who cared much for shiny things. He drove a 1985 Ford F-150 that sounded like a dying tractor and smelled of wet dog and diesel. But today wasn’t about him. Today was for Jenny.
His granddaughter had just finished nursing school, top of her class. She was the first Vance to go to college. She needed something safe. Something reliable. Something that wouldn’t break down on a rainy night on the interstate.
Arthur’s eyes scanned the showroom. It was a cathedral of glass and chrome. Red, blue, and silver SUVs sat under harsh spotlights, looking more like spaceships than automobiles. He spotted a pearl-white SUV in the center of the floor. It had a big red bow on the hood.
That’s the one, he thought. Safe. Solid.
He walked over to it, his gait stiff from the arthritis in his knees. He reached out a hand—calloused, scarred, with dirt permanently etched into the fingerprints—and gently touched the cool metal of the fender. It felt alien compared to the rough wood of his fence posts.
He ran his hand along the side mirror, imagining Jenny sitting in the driver's seat. She would look good in this. She would be safe. He smiled faintly, a rare expression that crinkled the deep lines around his eyes. He began to look around for a price sticker, or perhaps a salesman to help him.
The showroom was quiet, save for the low hum of pop music playing over the speakers. He saw a huddle of men in sharp suits standing near the coffee machine in the back. They were laughing, checking their watches.
Arthur cleared his throat, but it came out as a dry rasp. He leaned in closer to look at the leather interior through the driver's side window.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over him, blocking the overhead spotlight. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
Arthur didn't even have time to turn around before a voice, dripping with venom and smelling of stale coffee, hissed right into his ear: "Hey! Get your dirty hands off the merchandise before I call the pound."
