Chapter 4 - The Return to Hayes Auto
The neon sign of *Hayes Auto and Tire* buzzed faintly in the humid morning air as we pulled into the gravel parking lot. The bay doors were already wide open, the familiar smell of motor oil, burning rubber, and exhaust fumes drifting out into the street.
Matthew sat in the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. His lower lip was still swollen and bruised, a stark reminder of yesterday's violence.
"Rebecca, this is a terrible idea," he muttered for the tenth time since we left Clarksville. "Derek is going to lose his mind when he sees you. And if Ma is here..."
"Let them lose their minds," I said, putting the car in park. "Unbuckle your seatbelt, Matthew. We're going inside."
I opened my door and stepped out, wearing my standard civilian clothes—dark jeans, sturdy boots, and a plain black polo shirt—but I carried myself with the absolute composure of a staff sergeant inspecting a volatile combat zone.
Matthew reluctantly stepped out of the car, walking beside me like a man marching toward an executioner's block. As we crossed the threshold of the main garage, the heavy thud of an air wrench cut off abruptly.
Derek was standing near the hydraulic lift where a blue sedan was hoisted in the air. His right wrist was wrapped in a thick white bandage and supported by a black sling. His face was pale, and the dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn't slept a wink.
The moment he saw me walk through the door behind Matthew, his face flushed a violent, mottled crimson.
"You," Derek snarled, dropping the wrench he was holding onto the concrete floor with a loud clang. He limped forward, favoring his injured arm, his eyes bulging with rage. "You've got a lot of nerve showing your face here, you psycho bitch!"
Several mechanics working in the adjacent bays stopped what they were doing, dropping their tools and turning their heads to watch the show. Among them was old Tom, a veteran mechanic who had worked for Matthew and Derek’s father for over thirty years.
"Watch your mouth, Derek," I said, my voice cutting through the garage noise with absolute authority. I didn't raise my voice, but every word carried weight.
"My mouth?!" Derek shrieked, pointing his uninjured hand at me while clutching his sling-bound arm. "You assaulted me! You broke my wrist in front of the whole family! And you bring her back here, Matthew?! Are you completely spineless?!"
Matthew flinched at the insult, but before he could shrink away, I stepped smoothly past him, closing the distance between Derek and myself until I was standing well within his personal space. Derek instinctively took a half-step back, his eyes darting nervously to my hands. He hadn't forgotten how quickly things had gone sideways yesterday.
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"You assaulted an eight-year-old child," I said quietly, locking my gaze onto his. "You poured beer over her head, you shoved my husband, and you threw a punch. What happened yesterday afternoon was the consequence of your actions. Consider it a light warning."
"I'll have you arrested
