Page 28 of Devil in the Details

Even with its brakes malfunctioning, the Porsche had been designed to hug the road on curves and turns, and Caleb took advantage of its low-slung proportions to whip the vehicle to the left to avoid someone in a Prius who’d jumped the gun on his right, and then mirror that maneuver to prevent himself from slamming into a minivan that shouldn’t have been nearly so gung ho. Tires squealed and smoke billowed everywhere, but he didn’t hit anything.

No, somehow he managed to make it to the other side of the intersection, the Porsche slowing with every foot until he managed to drift it over to the curb, where he promptly put it in park and then sat there for a moment, adrenaline screaming along every nerve ending and his heartbeat a rapid, frightened pounding in his chest.

Some part of him wondered if the car would start up again, if it was truly possessed, but that didn’t seem to be the case. No, it just sat there, one hundred and fifty thousand bucks’ worth of heart-attack-inducing steel.

Caleb swallowed, then pulled out his phone and looked up the number for Triple-A. He didn’t know what the hell had just happened, but he knew he wasn’t getting behind the wheel of the Cabriolet again until he’d had it inspected from top to bottom.

That had been way too close.

Chapter Seven

Someone rang the doorbell a little after six, and Delia frowned. She knew she wasn’t expecting anyone, and since her neighborhood had “No Soliciting” signs posted everywhere, she didn’t get many random callers.

Heels clicking, she went to the front door. She’d had a late showing at five and had just gotten home, and hadn’t had time to change out of her work clothes.

Let it be a couple of Girl Scouts and not some Seventh-Day Adventists, she thought. Although she tried not to keep too many sweets in the house, she made an exception for Thin Mints and Samoas.

But it wasn’t girls trying to sell cookies or missionaries attempting to pass out religious tracts. No, that was Caleb Lockwood standing on the doorstep, looking wrung out.

“What happened?” she asked, even as she stepped out of the way to let him inside.

Even though his face was much paler than normal, he still flashed her his usual insouciant grin. “I look that bad, huh?”

Delia couldn’t help smiling in return. “Well, let’s just say that I’ve seen you look better.”

He ran a hand through his shaggy, dark blond hair, mussing it that much more. However, it just made him look rakish rather than rumpled, which she guessed had been the desired effect.

“The brakes on my new Porsche just failed.”

That was about the last thing she’d been expecting him to say. “What?”

His smile didn’t fade. “Pretty much my reaction. Somehow, I managed to get through the intersection without smashing into anyone. I suppose if the whole house-flipping thing doesn’t work out, I can always try for a career in NASCAR racing or something.”

Somehow, she doubted the Porsche’s brakes had given out spontaneously…and, if the suddenly sober look Caleb now wore was any indication, he didn’t believe that for a second, either.

“Go ahead and sit down,” she said. “Want a drink?”

“I’d kill for one.”

Now she couldn’t help smiling. “I’m pretty sure murder won’t be necessary.”

While he took a seat on the living room couch, she headed into the kitchen and got down two wine glasses, then pulled the cork out of a bottle of red she’d had open for a day or so and poured the remaining wine into the glasses.

One of them was a little fuller than the other, so she gave that glass to Caleb before she took a seat in the accent chair to his right. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Oh, I’m fine,” he said at once, then swallowed some of his wine. “I called a tow truck and had the Porsche towed to the dealership. The service department had already closed for the day, but the guy who sold me the car was still there, and he assured me they’d look at it first thing in the morning.”

Delia drank some wine as well. “Do you really think they’re going to find anything?”

Dark eyes glinted at her. “Are you implying there’s some kind of demonic intervention going on?”

“It was my first thought, yes,” she said.

Caleb eased himself backward on the couch, then pulled in a breath. “Maybe. Probably. I don’t know. I mean, the car was sitting in the casino parking lot unattended the whole time I was inside playing, so I suppose it wouldn’t have been too hard for someone to come along and mess with the brake lines.”

Delia couldn’t think of too many people who’d be bold enough to tamper with a car as conspicuous as his Porsche in broad daylight like that, especially in such a public place. Voice dubious, she said, “Doesn’t the casino have any security out in the parking lot?”

“Oh, sure,” Caleb replied, and then gave a derisive chuckle. “But the guy I saw would probably be as useless as a fart in a hurricane if anything really started to go down.”

---