“What date was the car brought in, again?” “August thirty-first,” she says. “August thirty-first.” I repeat. My skin prickles, every nerve twitching. Ezra tilts his head. “Why do you look like you just swallowed a grenade?” “Because we came in from LA the night before that. August thirtieth, remember? The hailstorm. The night Mr. Bowman was killed in a hit-and-run.” Nobody says anything for a second, and I tap the paper Mia is holding. “Front of vehicle damage due to unknown impact?”
