She came to the garage on a Wednesday.
Adam was alone, replacing the brakes on a Honda Civic, when the bell above the door jingled. He looked up from under the hood and saw a woman standing in the entrance. Mid-thirties, dark hair pulled back, a long coat that didn't fit the weather. Her hands were shoved in her pockets. Her eyes darted around the garage like she was expecting someone to jump out from behind the tool chest.
“Help you?” Adam asked.
“Are you Adam Kosta?”
“Depends on who's asking.”
“My name is Teresa. Not the Teresa who works here. Different Teresa.” She stepped closer, her boots echoing on the concrete. “I was in Warehouse 14. Not the night your brother died. Years before. I was one of Cindy's girls.”
Adam set down his wrench. “How did you find me?”
“The memorial. I s
