Ray stared at him.
“You thought about that?”
“I thought about it before I touched the bike.”
Ray looked toward Garrett.
Garrett was still watching.
“He’s not going to like hearing that.”
Owen shrugged.
“He doesn’t have to.”
The next clue came from something almost invisible.
Owen had removed the fuel line to inspect the flow.
As the fuel drained into a container, he noticed something unusual.
The pressure seemed inconsistent.
Not low enough to cause a complete failure.
But unstable.
He tested the pump.
It worked.
He tested the regulator.
It appeared normal.
Then he examined the fuel filter.
Nothing.
Owen sat back on his heels.
The crowd behind him continued talking.
Someone opened a soda.
A wrench fell on the other side of the garage.
But Owen heard none of it.
He was thinking.
The motorcycle had been running before.
Something changed.
Garrett had installed a new seat.
A loose wire had appeared beneath that seat.
A damaged connection had been discovered.
A piece of metal had been left inside the compartment.
Any one of those things could have been an accident.
But all of them together?
Owen looked toward Garrett.
“Who’s Mason?”
Garrett’s face hardened.
“I already told you.”
“What does he do?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m asking.”
Garrett stared at him.
The crowd became quieter.
Finally, Garrett answered.
“He owns a custom shop outside town.”
“What kind of shop?”
“Motorcycles.”
Ray looked toward Garrett.
“You bought that seat from another motorcycle mechanic?”
Garrett looked annoyed.
“He’s not a mechanic.”
“What is he, then?”
Garrett hesitated.
“A builder.”
Owen stood.
“Same difference.”
Garrett crossed his arms.
“You think he did something to my bike?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking somebody touched something they shouldn’t have.”
Garrett stepped forward.
“No one touched my bike.”
Owen pointed toward the damaged wire.
“Then how do you explain that?”
Garrett looked at the floor.
Nobody answered.
Owen returned to the fuel system.
A few minutes later, he removed a small section near the fuel delivery assembly.
His fingers found something unusual.
A clamp.
It was not fully tightened.
Just loose enough to create an intermittent pressure problem.
Owen stared at it.
Then he looked at the crowd.
“Garrett.”
Garrett approached.
“What?”
“Who worked on this fuel line?”
“Nobody.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Owen pointed.
“This clamp didn’t loosen itself.”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed.
“It could have.”
“No.”
“You some kind of expert now?”
Owen stood.
“No.”
The answer surprised Garrett.
Owen continued.
“I’m not an expert.”
He held up the damaged clamp.
“But I know when something is supposed to be tight.”
The crowd laughed.
Garrett did not.
Ray took the clamp and inspected it.
Then he looked toward Garrett.
“Kid’s right.”
Garrett said nothing.
For the first time that night, doubt entered his face.
Mason.
The name hung in the air.
Garrett had known Mason Vance for years.
They had ridden together.
Worked on bikes together.
Drunk together.
Argued.
Fought.
Made up.
Then, six months earlier, Garrett had stopped speaking to him.
Nobody knew exactly why.
Not even Ray.
But everyone knew the two men hated each other.
Owen noticed Garrett’s silence.
“What happened between you?”
Garrett looked at him.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Then don’t answer.”
Owen turned back to the bike.
Garrett stood there for several seconds.
Then he said, “He stole from me.”
Owen stopped.
The garage became silent.
Garrett continued.
“Years ago, Mason worked at a shop I invested in.”
Ray looked surprised.
“You invested in his shop?”
“He was good.”
Garrett’s voice became colder.
“I thought he was.”
“What did he steal?”
“Money. Parts. Tools.”
Owen turned.
“And you proved it?”
Garrett nodded.
“Security footage.”
“What happened?”
“He got fired.”
“Then?”
“Then he disappeared.”
Owen looked at the motorcycle.
“And now he sold you a seat.”
Garrett’s face darkened.
“I didn’t know it came from him.”
“But you bought it from him.”
Garrett said nothing.
Owen understood.
There was more to the story.
But he didn’t need all of it.
He had enough.
“Do you have the receipt?”
Garrett frowned.
“For a motorcycle seat?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know when you bought it.”
Garrett pulled out his phone.
He searched.
Then handed it over.
Owen read the date.
Three days ago.
Exactly when the problems had begun.
Owen handed the phone back.
“Get me a new fuel clamp.”
Ray immediately moved.
Owen looked at Garrett.
“And don’t call Mason.”
Garrett stared at him.
“Why not?”
“Because if he did this, I don’t want him knowing what we found.”
Garrett’s eyes locked onto Owen.
The eighteen-year-old mechanic stood in front of him, thin and exhausted, with grease covering his hands.
But there was no fear in his expression.
Garrett slowly nodded.
For the first time that night, he followed Owen’s instructions.
And the bet became something else entirely.
The new clamp fixed the fuel pressure problem.
But Owen still wasn’t satisfied.
He replaced the damaged wire.
He secured the ground connection.
He tightened the fuel system.
Then he started the motorcycle again.
The engine roared.
The sound was stronger this time.
The idle stabilized.
For ten seconds, everything appeared perfect.
Then the engine suddenly coughed.
Owen shut it down.
Garrett stared at him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Owen stepped back.
“No.”
“You found three problems.”
“Yes.”
“And it’s still not fixed.”
“Correct.”
Garrett threw his hands into the air.
A few people laughed nervously.
Owen remained calm.
He had learned something from his father.
When a problem became complicated, the worst thing you could do was panic.
Go back.
Start again.
Check what you know.
The motorcycle had electrical issues.
Fuel pressure issues.
Signs that someone may have tampered with it.
But there was still something wrong.
Something mechanical.
Owen opened his toolbox.
At the bottom, beneath several old sockets, lay the wrench.
It was not beautiful.
The metal had lost its shine.
The handle was scratched.
One edge carried the faint initials D.C.
Daniel Carter.
Owen’s father had carved them there himself.
Garrett looked down.
“That’s the famous wrench?”
Owen smiled.
“It’s a wrench.”
“You’ve been carrying that thing around like it’s important.”
“It is.”
Garrett crossed his arms.
“Why?”
Owen stared at the engine.
“My father gave it to me.”
Garrett waited.
Owen rarely spoke about Daniel.
But the garage had grown quiet.
And perhaps he was tired.
“My father used to tell me that expensive tools don’t make you good.”
Garrett looked at the wrench.
“What makes you good?”
“Knowing when to use them.”
Garrett said nothing.
Owen placed the wrench against a hidden fastener near the intake system.