Page 108 of Scarlet Thorns
Something is very, very wrong.
The engine sounds fine— still purring with that expensive smoothness— but the car feels like it’s coming apart underneath me. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to get off the road before whatever’s happening gets worse.
I spot a small parking area beside a café and signal carefully, fighting the Jaguar’s violent tendency to veer left as I maneuver into a space. My hands are shaking so badly I have trouble turning off the engine.
The sudden silence feels ominous. No more purring engine, no more vibration— just the rapid sound of my own breathing and the distant hum of traffic on the main road.
I climb out on unsteady legs and walk around to the front of the car. I’m no mechanic— can barely check my own oil— but even I can see that something is wrong with the left front wheel. It’s sitting at an angle that doesn’t match the right side, like the whole assembly has shifted somehow.
My phone is in my hand before I fully decide to call him.
“Ilona.” Osip’s voice is clipped, distracted. I can hear him typing in the background.
“Something’s wrong with the car. I think there’s a problem with the front wheel.”
The typing stops. “Where are you?”
“About three kilometers from the house, near that little café on Váci Road.”
“Don’t move. Don’t get back in the car. I’m sending someone.”
The line goes dead, leaving me standing alone beside the vehicle, suddenly feeling very small and very exposed.
Twenty minutes later, a tow truck rumbles into the parking area, followed by a compact white van. A man climbs out of the van— broad-shouldered and weathered, with oil-stained hands and the kind of face that’s seen every automotive problem imaginable.
He nods to me briefly before crouching beside the front wheel, his movements deliberate and professional. I watch from what feels like a safe distance as he runs his hands along the tire, then peers underneath the car with a small flashlight.
His expression grows increasingly grim.
“You hit something today?” he asks, straightening up and wiping his hands on a rag. His English is heavily accented but clear. “Big pothole, maybe? Curb?”
“No, nothing like that.” My voice sounds thin, nervous. “I was just driving normally and it started pulling to one side.”
He crouches down again, this time focusing on something I can’t see underneath the car. When he emerges, his face is troubled.
“Come here,” he says, gesturing for me to join him. “I show you something.”
I approach reluctantly, not sure I want to see whatever he’s found.
He points to a series of bolts near the wheel assembly. “These should be tight. Very tight. But look—” He touches one with his finger, and I can see it move slightly. “These don’t come loose by themselves. Someone loosened these. Not all the way, but enough.”
My mouth goes dry. “Loosened them?”
“Yes. Is not accident.” He shakes his head, expression serious. “These bolts, they don’t come loose by themselves,” he repeats. “Someone used wrench on them. Made them just loose enough that driving would make them worse.”
He stands up, brushing dirt off his knees. “You drive maybe ten, fifteen more kilometers? At highway speed?” He makes a gesture with his hands— something breaking apart, scattering. “Wheel come off. Very dangerous.”
The parking lot seems to spin around me. “You’re saying someone did this on purpose?”
“Is what I’m saying, yes.” He looks troubled, like this isn’t the kind of problem he usually encounters. “I fix for now, but I report to Mr. Sidorov. He needs to know someone tampered with his car.”
His car.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s not really mine— nothing in this new life is really mine. I’m just borrowing everything until the contract expires.
Or until someone kills me, apparently.
The mechanic works efficiently, tightening the bolts with a torque wrench and checking every other component he can reach. I stand there feeling exposed and vulnerable, scanning the café and the street beyond for… what? Someone watching? Someone waiting to see if their sabotage worked?
