Marcus could tell the officer was trying to remain neutral.
That mattered to him.
He had spent enough time around people who made assumptions before asking questions. He did not want another confrontation.
"Do you have paperwork for the vehicle?" Harris asked.
Marcus nodded.
"It's in the office."
He walked toward a small desk in the corner.
Evelyn watched him suspiciously.
Marcus returned with a folder.
He handed the documents to Officer Harris.
The officer examined the registration.
Everything appeared legitimate.
Evelyn stepped closer.
"That doesn't prove he's allowed to operate a business here."
Harris looked at her.
"Do you have evidence that he is?"
"He has tools."
Marcus almost laughed.
"He's a mechanic," Evelyn said.
"I'm an amateur restorer," Marcus corrected.
"Same thing."
"No. It isn't."
Harris handed the documents back.
"I don't see evidence of a commercial operation."
Evelyn's expression hardened.
"So you're just going to leave?"
"If there's no violation, yes."
She looked stunned.
"I called because I thought someone was breaking the rules."
"And if you believe there's a zoning violation, the proper department can investigate that."
Marcus nodded.
"That's what I've been saying."
Evelyn turned toward him.
"You think you're clever."
"No."
"You think because you have paperwork, nobody can question you."
Marcus shook his head.
"I think I should be able to work on my own car without being treated like a criminal."
The words hung in the garage.
Officer Harris looked at Marcus.
Then at Evelyn.
Then back at the Mustang.
"Here's what I'd recommend," he said. "Keep your work within reasonable hours. Avoid unnecessary noise. If there's a separate zoning issue, contact the city."
Evelyn wasn't satisfied.
But she finally stepped back.
"Fine."
She turned toward the driveway.
Then stopped.
She looked at Marcus one more time.
"That car is going to cause you trouble."
Marcus gave a tired smile.
"It's already causing me trouble."
Evelyn left.
Officer Harris remained for a moment.
"You two have history?"
Marcus shook his head.
"Not really."
"She seems convinced there's something more going on."
Marcus stared at the orange Mustang.
"I don't know what she's convinced of."
Harris nodded.
"Just keep everything documented."
"I will."
The officer walked away.
Marcus watched the patrol car leave.
Only then did he realize his hands were trembling slightly.
He hated conflict.
His father had taught him that arguments rarely solved anything. His father had also taught him that walking away from every confrontation could sometimes be just as dangerous as starting one.
Marcus closed the garage door halfway.
Then he returned to the Mustang.
He placed his hand on the hood.
"You're becoming expensive," he muttered.
The Mustang, of course, gave no answer.
But there was something about the car that had always bothered him.
The previous owner had been strangely reluctant to discuss its history.
He had simply said:
"Restore it. Don't sell it."
Marcus had assumed the old man was sentimental.
Now he wasn't so sure.
That evening, Marcus returned to the engine.
He removed a panel near the rear compartment.
Something caught his attention.
A small metal box was hidden beneath the lining.
Marcus froze.
He had never seen it before.
He carefully removed it.
The box was old.
Scratched.
Heavy.
There was no label.
Marcus opened it.
Inside was a bundle of photographs, several handwritten letters, and a small brass key.
His heart began beating faster.
He picked up the first photograph.
It showed the orange Mustang decades earlier.
Beside it stood a younger man Marcus didn't recognize.
On the back was a date.
And underneath the date, six words:
"If anything happens, protect the car."
Marcus read it again.
Then again.
He reached for another photograph.
This one showed the same man standing beside another person.
Marcus recognized the second man immediately.
It was his father.
He lowered the photograph.
For several seconds, he couldn't breathe.
His father had died when Marcus was twenty-two.