Page 12 of Let Me In

No heat. No noise. No burns.

And now the old bike is up for sale. Clean and ready. But not mine anymore.

The buyer’s late.

Dad’s in the garage, just a few feet away, doing everything in his power to make sure I know this sale doesn’t have his blessing. He’s not looking at me, not exactly, but I can feel him hovering. A presence of disapproval, just close enough to sour the air.

He didn’t want me to sell it. Said it was his now. That I owed him. He’d yelled—really yelled—when I told him I’d already listed it.

“You don’t think I could use that thing? After everything I’ve done for you?”

But I need the money more than he needs another toy to let rust.

The sound of tires crunching up the driveway makes my spine straighten. A pickup, older, maybe late 2000s. The buyer. Mid-forties. Ballcap. Worn jeans and confidence like a cologne. He sizes me up before he even says hello.

“You're the one selling?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah. That’s her.”

He walks a slow circle around the bike, makes a few hmm sounds like he’s doing me a favor just by being here. Kicks the back tire. Scoffs at the fender.

“I’ll give you $1,200,” he says finally, hands on his hips like he expects me to thank him.

“I listed it for two.”

“Sure,” he shrugs. “But you’re not gonna get that. Not for this.”

I hesitate. I feel my father’s breath behind me, even though he hasn’t said a word. Just that tight little laugh earlier when I wheeled the bike out front.

The buyer’s looking at me like I’m about to fold. And for a second, I almost do. I feel myself pulling inward, bracing—not just for the lowball offer, but for the voice behind me, the breath I’ve learned to dread. The same way I shrink when Dad’s in the room. Like I’m already wrong just for standing here.

I’m halfway into that old, familiar crouch when I hear it—a new sound, deep and clean, cutting through it all like a thread of calm.

Low, steady. A classic V8 rumble. Not like the pickup. Deeper. Smooth as midnight, but with a bite behind it.

A car turns the corner at the end of our street.

Black. All black. The body, the grille, the trim. Even the wheels. It looks like something built in secret and meant to disappear just as easily. 1970 Chevelle. The kind of car you don’t see—you feel first. Every inch of it is purposeful. Quiet and exacting.

And behind the wheel—him.

I freeze.

The sun catches his sunglasses, the curve of his jaw, the way his hand drapes over the steering wheel like it belongs there. My heart thunders before I can stop it. Not because of the car.

Because I thought maybe he wasn’t real.

He drives by without slowing.

I don’t breathe until he’s gone.

The buyer is still talking. Something about the engine, or how much work it’ll need, even though I know it needs nothing. I’m nodding, but I’m not listening.

Because the Chevelle is back.

Turning around. Easing up the road again.

And this time, it pulls into the driveway.

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