People waved.
Some knew who he was now.
Others simply admired the car.
Sterling didn't mind anymore.
He drove beyond the subdivision toward the cemetery.
Tate sat beside him.
The green Mustang rolled quietly beneath the trees.
They parked near Margaret's grave.
Tate remained inside.
Sterling stepped out.
He stood beside the headstone.
For a while, he said nothing.
Then he smiled.
“You would've liked the color today.”
The wind moved through the trees.
Sterling looked down.
“I finished it.”
He paused.
“Tate helped.”
Another silence.
“And yes, we argued.”
He smiled.
“Mostly about engines.”
For a moment, Sterling could almost hear Margaret laughing.
The Mustang had survived.
So had the family.
Not in the way he had once imagined.
But in another way.
The car had become proof that something built together could outlive the person who started it.
Sterling returned to the car.
Tate looked at him.
“You okay?”
Sterling nodded.
“Yeah.”
He looked through the windshield.
“Better than okay.”
What the Salute Really Meant
Years later, Briarwood Glen still told the story.
People remembered the green Mustang.
They remembered Hadley's pink blouse.
They remembered Bryson's hand on the roof.
But most of all, they remembered the salute.
Two officers stepping out of their cruisers.
Seeing the quiet homeowner.
Then suddenly standing straight.
“Chief Halloran, sir.”
The story became neighborhood legend.
Some details became exaggerated.
People claimed Hadley had screamed.
Others said Sterling had planned everything from the beginning.
The truth was much simpler.
Sterling hadn't needed revenge.
He had needed evidence.