Inside the diner, her phone buzzed. A text from a number she didn't recognize: "We saw everything. Meet at the cemetery. Midnight. Bring the drive. Don't be late."
"That's a hell of a wash," he said, circling Lola. He ran a finger over the trunk lid. "Not a single swirl. You're an artist."
He tilted his head.
The man's hand stopped. He looked at the sprayer, then at her. For a long second, nothing moved but the steam rising off the Charger's hood.
"Artists get paid," Milena said, wiping her hands on a rag. "Two hundred, plus tip." Milena Velba Car wash
The smile vanished. His hand drifted toward his coat pocket. Milena didn't flinch. She just squeezed the pressure washer trigger at her hip. A thin, high-pressure jet of water shot past his knee and shattered a ketchup bottle on the diner patio table behind him.
Glass tinkled. Heads turned.
Milena smiled. She hung up the pressure washer, folded her chamois, and poured herself a long glass of iced tea.