"I could go Friday morning. On the way out of town."
"With your mother in the car? To the police station?"
"She's been to the police station," Danny said. "She's got a lot of experience with the police station."
Lena laughed, a short surprised breath, and then pressed her lips together as if she had not meant to.
Behind her, in the middle of the garage, under a fitted canvas cover gone gray with dust, crouched the car.
It was a 1966 Ford Mustang coupe, and in its first life it had belonged to a dentist in Shaker Heights who drove it into a telephone pole on Van Aken Boulevard in the spring of 1970. Frank had bought it from the insurance auction that summer for two hundred dollars, which was, he said, robbery, though he never specified of whom. It had been Wimbledon White. When Danny last saw it, in August of 1974, it had been gray primer from nose to tail with the engine out on a stand in the corner and the front end straightened and the interior stripped to bare metal, and he and Frank had spent the last month before he left rebuilding the carburetor on newspapers spread on this bench.
He walked over to it. He took hold of the canvas at the front and looked at Lena. She nodded. He drew the cover back, slowly, all the way off the hood and the windshield and the roof, and let it fall in a heap behind the rear bumper.
She was red.