Chapter 1

Ava

The world shrinks to the space between my knuckles and the worn leather of the steering wheel. A low thrum vibrates up through the pedals, through the soles of my worn-out Pumas, and settles deep in my bones. It’s a familiar hum, the mechanical heartbeat of my ’69 Camaro, a machine I know better than my own reflection. Outside, the Los Angeles night is a smear of neon and anticipation. The crowd is a restless beast, their energy a low-frequency buzz against the growl of a dozen engines. The air tastes of grit and exhaust, a cocktail I’ve known my whole life.

They call me “The Ghost.” I’m a whisper on the asphalt, a flash of silver-blue steel that’s there one moment and gone the next. Tonight, I need to be faster than a rumor. Tonight, visibility is a liability I can’t afford.

My gaze flicks to the makeshift starting line, a strip of fluorescent tape peeling off the cracked pavement of this abandoned industrial park in Vernon. I ignore the faces, a sea of hungry eyes lit by phone screens and halogen floodlights. I ignore the wads of cash being passed from hand to hand, the low, urgent murmur of bets being placed. They don’t matter. The only thing that matters is the five grand prize. An image of my grandmother flashes in my mind—her hands, once so strong, now resting fragile and bird-like on her blanket. Five grand. That’s two more months of Nurse Elidia’s care, two more months of dignity, of her being able to stay in the home she’s lived in for fifty years. Five grand is the dam holding back a flood of guilt and failure.

This isn’t about adrenaline, not anymore. It’s about survival. I take a deep, steadying breath, but the scent of burning rubber and cheap hot dogs does little to calm the frantic hummingbird beating against my ribs. My fingers flex. My foot hovers over the gas, light as a feather.

To my right, Caleb’s Dodge Charger Hellcat idles with an arrogant rumble, its cherry-red paint job so slick it looks wet under the lights. He leans out the window, a smirk pulling at his lips, the kind that makes you want to check your teeth for something green. He thinks this is a game, a way to pass a Thursday night. For him, it is. His father owns half the luxury car dealerships in Beverly Hills. If he wrecks this seventy-thousand-dollar toy, Daddy will just buy him a new one. My Camaro, The Phantom, was rebuilt with my own two hands, paid for with three years of greasy, back-breaking work at a garage that paid me under the table because they knew I was desperate. She’s all I have.

“Feeling lucky, Montgomery?” Caleb’s voice cuts through the engine noise, smooth and condescending. “Or did you just need the cash bad enough to risk that piece of junk again?”

I keep my eyes fixed forward. Don’t take the bait. Don’t let him see he’s getting to you. He feeds on that. “Just focus on not scratching your paint, Caleb.”

A girl in cutoff shorts and a cropped top steps between our cars, holding up a red bandana. My focus narrows, a tunnel vision that blots out Caleb, my grandmother, the crushing weight of my responsibilities—everything but the strip of road ahead. The bandana drops.

I slam the gas.

The Phantom screams, a raw, beautiful sound of pure power. Tires bite into the pavement, and we launch forward. The world dissolves into a high-speed blur of decaying brick and yellowed light. My body moves on instinct, a fluid dance of muscle memory forged over hundreds of races just like this one. I shift, the gearbox groaning in protest, my hand a blur on the stick. The Hellcat is right on my tail, a predator in my rearview mirror, its headlights’ two angry eyes burning into my back. I can feel Caleb’s frustration, the angry roar of his engine a physical thing pushing against me. He has the horsepower, the raw, brutish strength that money can buy. But I have the skill, born from necessity.

I know this course like the lines on my palm. I know the pothole near the second turn that can throw your alignment. I know the exact moment to brake before the hairpin near the derelict warehouse, feathering the pedal to keep the back end from spinning out. Caleb, as always, takes it too wide, overconfident in his traction control. His tires squeal in a desperate cry for grip. That’s my opening. My chance. I gun it, pulling ahead as we rocket down the straightaway. The wind whips through the open window, a wild symphony of speed, and for a glorious, fleeting second, I’m not just surviving. I’m flying.

The finish line—a pair of flaming oil drums—is a hundred yards away. Caleb is closing in again, his engine a furious roar of indignation. He can’t stand being beaten, especially by me. But it’s too late. I’m already there. I fly past the flames, the heat a fleeting kiss on my skin.

Victory. A wave of profound, bone-deep relief washes over me, so potent it almost makes me dizzy. I did it. I actually did it. A grin splits my face, raw and real and unfamiliar.

And then, nothing.

The engine cuts out. No cough, no sputter, just an abrupt, deafening silence. The Phantom coasts, her momentum dying with a sickening lurch that throws me forward against my seatbelt. The triumphant roar of the engine is replaced by a high-pitched electrical whine and the acrid smell of fried wiring that stings my nostrils. My grin melts into a mask of cold, hard dread. I grip the wheel, my knuckles white, as the car rolls to a dead stop fifty feet past the finish line.

“No, no, no,” I whisper, my voice cracking in the sudden, tomb-like quiet. I turn the key. Nothing. The ignition doesn’t even click. I try again, pumping the gas like a prayer to a god I stopped believing in long ago. The dashboard is dark. She’s dead. Utterly, completely dead. The five grand is mine, but my only way home, my only asset, my only piece of freedom, is a hollowed-out metal corpse.

Headlights slice through my rearview mirror, blinding me. Caleb’s Hellcat pulls up alongside my driver’s side door, his engine purring like a satisfied jungle cat. He kills the ignition, and the sudden quiet feels heavier, more damning, than the noise.

He doesn’t just lean out the window this time. He gets out, slamming his door with a sound that echoes through the now-emptying lot. He saunters over, hands in the pockets of his designer jeans, a picture of casual victory in defeat.

He leans down, peering into my window, that same condescending smirk firmly in place. “Tough break, Ghost. Looks like your little antique finally gave up. I’m shocked it lasted this long, honestly.”

I refuse to look at him, staring straight ahead at the cracked windshield, at the tiny spiderweb of a fissure near the bottom corner that I’ve been meaning to fix for months. “I won the race, Caleb.”

“You did,” he concedes, his tone dripping with a false magnanimity that sets my teeth on edge. “For a second there, you were really something. And now…” He gestures around at my dead car, the darkness, the isolation. “Now you’re this. Stranded. You almost made it back. Almost.” He lets the word hang in the air, a deliberate sting. “Tell you what. I’ve got a tow rope in the trunk. I can drag you back to a garage. No charge.”

I know his offer for what it is. It’s not kindness. It’s a power play. It’s a story he can tell his friends, about how he had to rescue poor little Ava Montgomery after her rust bucket fell apart. It’s a way for him to reclaim his dominance, to put me in his debt. My pride, already frayed, hardens into a sharp, protective shell.

“Seriously, Ava,” he presses when I don’t answer, his voice taking on a needling, insistent quality. “What’s your plan here? You gonna call for a tow? I’m sure they’ll come right out to this fine establishment. Or maybe you can use some of that prize money for an Uber. Oh, wait.” He snaps his fingers, a cruel, performative gesture. “That money’s probably already spent, isn’t it?”

My hands, which had been clenched on the steering wheel, slowly unclench. I turn my head, my movements deliberate, and meet his gaze with a cold placidity I don’t feel. “I’d rather set it on fire and walk home.”

His smirk falters for an instant, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes before the arrogance slides back into place. He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Always so dramatic. Suit yourself. Offer’s on the table when you get tired of waiting for a miracle.” He gives my car a dismissive pat on the roof, a final insult, before turning his back and walking away. He starts his engine, the sound an obnoxious roar of victory, and with a final, pitying glance in his rearview mirror, he peels away, leaving me stranded in a pool of dying light and the ghost of his exhaust fumes.

The silence that follows is heavier than a tombstone. Five grand richer, and I’ve never felt poorer. The money feels like ash in my mouth. I won, but in the same breath, I lost the only thing that felt truly mine. I stare through the windshield into the deepening dark, the remnants of the crowd melting away into the night, a single thought echoing in the hollow space where my hope used to be: Now what?