Chapter 4: A Devil's Handshake

Chapter 4: A Devil's Handshake

The address for Miller’s Auto wasn’t on any main road. It was tucked away down a gravel lane that seemed to intentionally shed the town’s civility with every pothole. Chloe’s small sedan bounced and rattled, the headlights cutting through a thick evening mist that clung to the skeletal remains of rusted-out cars flanking the path. It felt less like a road and more like a graveyard for forgotten machines. The image of Dan’s defeated face, the hollowed-out look in his eyes as he’d re-read the affidavit for the tenth time, was the only fuel she needed.

She parked next to a mountain of bald tires that smelled of stagnant water and decay. The shop itself was a vast, corrugated steel building, its windows opaque with grease. A single, bare bulb above the main door cast a sickly yellow glow, illuminating the chaos of the yard. The low, angry growl of an angle grinder echoed from within, a sound like a caged beast. This was the lion’s den. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the steady thrum of her resolve. This was a place built on intimidation, designed to make people feel small and unwelcome.

Her goal was simple: plant a seed and walk away. She was here to trade information, not to get involved. She was a messenger, nothing more.

Taking a deep breath, Chloe stepped out of her car. The gravel crunched under her boots, the sound unnaturally loud in the damp air. She walked toward the bay door, a gaping maw of light and noise.

As she reached the entrance, the grinding stopped. The sudden silence was more unnerving than the noise had been. A figure emerged from underneath the chassis of a half-dismantled pickup truck, rising like a golem of grease and muscle. He was immense, with a thick beard and arms like hydraulic presses. This had to be one of them. He wiped a black-stained hand across his brow, his small eyes fixing on her with blank suspicion.

“Shop’s closed,” he grunted, his voice a low rumble.

From a dimly lit corner, a second figure stepped forward, wiping his hands on a rag. He was leaner than the first, but carried an aura of coiled intensity. His eyes, unlike his brother’s, were sharp and intelligent—like chips of flint. He was the one she needed to convince.

“We don’t get many visitors,” the second brother said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth. “Especially not your type. You lost?”

Here was the obstacle. The wall of immediate, ingrained suspicion. They saw a woman from the tidy part of town, a problem they didn’t want.

Chloe kept her hands visible, her posture relaxed but firm. She met the sharp-eyed brother’s gaze directly. “I’m not lost,” she said, her voice steady. “And I’m not a cop, if that’s your next question.”

The brother’s expression didn’t change, but he didn't dismiss her either. He took a step closer, crossing his arms. “So what are you? You got a problem you think we can solve?”

“The opposite,” Chloe said, taking a calculated risk. She had to shift the dynamic, make this their idea. “I’m not here to ask you to solve my problem. I’m here to help you solve one of yours.”

A flicker of interest in those flinty eyes. The bigger brother just stared, unblinking.

“I’m listening,” the sharp one said.

“I heard you do some financing on the cars you sell,” Chloe began, laying the groundwork.

“Sometimes,” he said, the word a warning.

“I also hear you don’t like it when people get behind on their payments.”

A humorless smile touched his lips. “You heard right. Who’ve you been talking to?”

“The name doesn’t matter,” she said, dismissing the question. “The name that does matter is Billy Jean Hopkins.”

She watched their faces carefully. It was subtle, but it was there. The big one’s gaze shifted slightly, a glimmer of recognition. The sharp one’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The name was a key, and it had just turned a lock. They knew exactly who she was.

“The little red convertible,” the big one rumbled, more to his brother than to Chloe.

“What about her?” the sharp one asked, his focus entirely on Chloe now. The air crackled with tension.

“She’s been telling people she’s having trouble with her landlord. That she had to move in a hurry,” Chloe said, carefully weaving a narrative that was plausible and, most importantly, useful. “She just got a new place. Unlisted number. I imagine it’s been hard to get a hold of her to discuss her account.”

She let the implication hang in the air. The silence stretched, filled only by the drip of oil from the pickup truck. She was offering them Billy Jean on a silver platter.

The sharp one, Earl, as she’d heard Sal call him, studied her face, searching for the angle, the trap. “And why do you care so much about our business arrangements?”

This was the moment. Her answer had to be perfect, appealing to their specific code of ethics. She couldn’t sound emotional or vindictive. She had to sound like them—practical, principled, and final.

“Let’s just say she’s making life very difficult for a good person. A friend of mine,” Chloe said, her voice dropping to a lower, colder register. “She broke an agreement with him. A serious one. I hear you guys don’t like it when people don’t honor their agreements.” She paused, letting the words sink in. “I figure we have that in common.”

She had framed it perfectly. Billy Jean’s betrayal of Dan and her debt to the Millers were now two sides of the same coin: a failure to pay what is owed.

Earl exchanged a long, silent look with his brother, Hank. It was a complete conversation without a single word. Finally, Earl nodded, a short, sharp jerk of his chin. He pulled a greasy notepad and a pencil stub from his pocket.

“Address,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Chloe recited the address Billy Jean had bragged about finding last week, a small apartment complex on the other side of the county. Earl scribbled it down.

The transaction was complete. A grim, unspoken agreement had been forged in the oily air. Chloe had done her part. She had lit the fuse. Now all she could do was walk away from the explosion.

“That’s all,” she said, taking a step back. “Have a good night.”

She turned and walked out of the bay, her back rigid. She didn’t look back, not even when she heard the heavy footsteps behind her.

“Hey.”

The voice was Hank’s, the big one. It stopped her dead in her tracks, her hand hovering over her car door handle. She turned slowly. He stood at the edge of the light, a hulking silhouette.

“Anyone who screws over a friend like that,” he said, his voice a low, gravelly promise, “deserves what’s coming.”

A cold shock went through Chloe, colder than the damp night air. It wasn’t just business for them. They understood. They approved. The grim satisfaction she expected to feel was there, but it was tangled with something else, something heavier. She hadn’t just sicced a collections agency on Billy Jean. She had passed a sentence, and the Millers were the executioners.

She gave a single, curt nod, then got in her car. As she drove away, the roar of the angle grinder started up again, fiercer this time. She had made a devil’s handshake, and she realized with chilling certainty that she couldn’t take it back.