Page 1 of Whispers of Redemption

CHAPTER 1

The sting of hot rubber burnout filled her nostrils as Cassie rolled slowly up toward the starting line. As much as she didn’t want to be here, she couldn’t deny the exhilaration flooding through her at the familiar smell. Once more, she pulled the emergency brake, hit the clutch, and shifted into first. She stood on the gas and released the clutch, grinning at the familiar squeal of the 1992 Honda Civic’s tires against pavement. The car danced forward a bit, like a horse ready to race. She glanced to her left where pink and lavender streaks blended like a pastel watercolor along the horizon and reflected off Lake Michigan’s ocean-like waves. It was all that remained of the brilliant summer sunset from moments ago. Then she shot a quick look at the driver on her right.

Brett Oliver sat behind the wheel of his 800-plus horsepower Mitsubishi Evo, refusing to look back at her. His lips were compressed, knuckles white, as he gripped the wheel. The shouts and cheers coming from the small group of bystanders at the side of the road were drowned out by the deafening roars of the two engines revving for takeoff, tires still smoking from the burnout.

Patricio, a friend of Cassie’s younger foster sister Ani, strode over and stood just in front of the noses of the two cars, his arms lifted to shoulder height. He gave a slight nod at each driver. Then his hands dropped.

As usual, Brett jumped the line. But Cassie was ready for it. She hadn’t been watching Patricio. She’d been watching Brett. She learned years ago that whenever someone is about to go, they always do something with their body. And she’d raced Brett enough times to know that right before he dropped the clutch, he would shift his body forward. The instant he moved, she went.

Cassie stuffed the accelerator and the car lurched forward. Ten miles per hour off the starting line, she pulled ahead by a car length. Forty miles per hour, she slammed it into second gear and shot further ahead, the tires giving a brief chirp. At ninety miles per hour, the Evo pulled closer. But this lasted for only about a hundredth of a second. With a grin, Cassie shifted again and accelerated. Fast. In seconds, she was flying up the road at one hundred and sixty miles per hour. The Civic shook from the speed as she shot across the finish line.

Brett’s Evo rolled past as she completed a U-turn and looped back to the starting line. The small crowd swarmed around her car. Whoops and cheers floated through the air as hands reached through the open driver’s side window to pat her shoulder in congratulations.

Most street racers share a camaraderie based on their love of speed and general good sportsmanship. But not Brett. He’d never been a good sport. So, instead of stopping to congratulate her, he just kept rolling his way through the crowd and then peeled off down Lakeshore Drive in a typical fit of bad temper, his taillights disappearing into the growing dusk. Patricio dished out the winnings, handing Cassie—now out of her car—a wad of money. She immediately turned and extended the cash toward Ani, who had limped her way forward through the throng.

“No way, Cassie. You’re the one who earned it,” Ani said, wrapping her in a quick hug. “Thanks so much for coming through for me. I still can’t believe I sprained my ankle today. You saved my life, well, my car’s life anyway, by taking my place in this race. Brett bet more money than I could, so I was forced to put up the car.” She ran her hand over the shiny hood. “But I knew,” she added with a sidelong glance. “After all your help tricking it out, you’d be just as motivated as me not to let her go.”

Cassie didn’t respond, but she knew Ani spoke the truth. At twenty-five, Cassie was nearly ten years older than Ani. But when she was younger, she’d pulled her own Mustang apart and reassembled it hundreds of times in her quest to eke out extra juice. And she’d forged a reputation as a winner every time she smoked another racer. At first, when sixteen-year-old Ani had begged for her help with the Honda, Cassie had resisted. She hadn’t wanted Ani to follow in her footsteps. But Ani was determined to race, and she’d nagged so relentlessly that Cassie had eventually caved. Together, she and Ani spent hours modifying the car. They’d replaced the stock engine with a granite black motor taken from an Acura Integra GSR. And they’d traded out the stock headers for larger custom ceramic-coated ones, routing the exhaust through twin softball-sized turbos. With these mods, and the boost dialed up to 20psi, they’d nearly tripled the horsepower, helping the lightweight Civic radically increase output.

“Brett is such a jerk,” Ani grumbled, tossing her long, dark curls back over her shoulder. “First, he insults me for even challenging him to the race. Then the big baby refuses to even share any of the mods that he made—”

“You shouldn’t have even wasted your time challenging him,” Cassie said, giving Ani a stern look. “You know how he is. It’s not worth it.”

“But whenever I see him, he’s always so full of himself,” Ani complained. “Bragging about how fast he is, slamming you for not racing anymore, saying you’re afraid.”

“So?” Cassie said.

“Well, I was sick of it.” Ani lifted her chin, then looked smug. “Anyway, with all the modifications you helped me make, I knew my car was going to be way faster than his.”

Cassie sighed. “C’mere.” She wrapped an arm around the petite girl’s shoulder and drew her away from the milling crowd in order to make their conversation more private. Once they were far enough away, she turned to face Ani. “Look, you know I wish you wouldn’t race. But if you do, it’s totally irresponsible to challenge an experienced racer like Brett for pinks.”

“But I knew you’d never lost to him before, and you wouldn’t now,” Ani said with satisfaction.

“I haven’t raced in years!” Cassie exclaimed. “Besides, you didn’t know that I would be the one racing him.” She shot Ani a sudden look of suspicion, peering closely at her face. But Ani’s large, dark eyes were shadowed in the growing dusk and impossible to read. “Ani, you better not have tricked me about this whole sprained ankle thing because—”

“Cops!” Patricio shouted. Cassie swung her eyes toward him and saw the police band radio held high over his head. “Go, go!”

Shouts came from the crowd as everyone raced toward their cars, engines starting in seconds.

“C’mon!” Cassie said.

Everyone took off, headlights dark, shooting north up Lakeshore Drive. Cassie and Ani ran toward the Honda just as the flashing police lights became visible down the road from the south.

Cassie was nearly to the car when Ani, several feet behind her, gave a sharp cry and fell. Cassie turned to see Ani struggling to get up. She raced back and reached down, pulling her onto her feet. But Ani’s right ankle crumbled and she fell again. The police cruiser was close now, headlights shining directly on them.

Cassie closed her eyes and groaned inwardly. This was not happening. This could not happen. After all the work she’d done to turn her life around. All the racing she’d done in the past and never got caught. Only to get busted now? She’d been a fool to help Ani.

She was still trying to help Ani onto her feet when two police officers stepped out of the car and moved toward them.

“What’s going on here, ladies? Do you need help?” one of the officers said.

“No, we’re fine,” Cassie said, gritting her teeth and moving to support Ani with an arm around her waist.

In a couple of long, easy strides, the two officers caught up to them. With the headlights blazing behind them, Cassie could only see the shadowed outlines of their shapes. One officer appeared short with a stocky build, while the other was tall and broad shouldered. The taller officer was shining a flashlight at their faces. Then he swung it away, panning out over the surrounding area.

“I’m Officer Garcia,” said the short, stocky officer. “And this is Officer Riley,” his hand lifted to indicate his taller partner.

“We had a complaint about excessive noise,” said Officer Riley. “The person who called it in said it sounded an awful lot like street racing. Of course, street racing is illegal in the village of Whispering Pines.” He emphasized the word “illegal” and swung the flashlight back toward their faces. “You ladies wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

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