Page 3 of Veil of Blood

I reach for the clipboard near the edge of the bench. “On the clock? Always.”

Rocco nods once. Like it’s good enough. Like I passed some kind of check.

Then he leaves.

The door shuts behind him. I count five seconds before I move. Then ten more before I let myself breathe. Not loud. Not shaky. Just enough.

I press my palm flat on the bench, then curl it into a fist. My grip tightens against the metal edge. Too hard. My skin pinches. I don’t stop until I feel the bone in my hand protest.

“You’re supposed to be dead to him, too,” I say, quiet but steady. “Don’t screw this up.”

Chapter 1 – Rocco

I’m halfway down the block when I check my jacket pocket and realize the phone’s not there.

Could’ve sworn I tossed it back after texting Sal. I stop walking, pat down both sides, and check the inside lining. Empty. Glove box, then. I must’ve dropped it when I was grabbing the registration.

Rain’s steady but light. The street’s quiet. Most of the neighborhood shuts down early. Little bodegas, corner laundromats, a couple tire shops closed up tight. Nothing flashy around here. That’s probably the point.

I head back toward the garage.

There’s no reason to feel off, but I do. Has nothing to do with the job. That woman—Clara, or whatever she’s calling herself—set off a twitch I don’t get often. Not danger. Just…misalignment. Like a face I almost recognize, but not enough to pin down. Could be nothing. Could be something worth clocking.

The door’s not locked. I push it open with the side of my boot.

“Forgot my phone in the glove box,” I call out, voice level as I step inside.

Clara jumps.

Not a full jolt, but enough. Her left hand freezes on the socket wrench mid-turn. She covers it quickly with a shift of her elbow, like she’s repositioning instead of reacting.

“Jesus,” she mutters, then exhales through her nose. “You move quietly.”

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

That’s not entirely true. I didn’t walk heavy either. But her reaction’s sharper than it should be. She’s not just surprised—she’s bracing.

I walk past the workbench and head to the car. It’s still parked where I left it, hood down. Passenger door locked. Driver’s side ajar just slightly. I open it, reach into the glove box, and spot the phone wedged near a napkin and a crushed receipt. I pocket it without a word, but keep my eyes on her.

She hasn’t gone back to work.

Her grip’s still loose on the wrench, like she’s holding it out of habit more than use. Her shoulders are up. Eyes forward but not focused on anything in particular.

“You alright?” I ask, keeping it casual.

“Fine,” she says too fast. “Just startled.” Then she rolls her eyes, as if she knows it sounded off. “You usually double back on clients?”

Her half-grin’s dry. Not nervous, just…practiced.

“Only when I forget stuff,” I say. “Could’ve sworn I had it in my jacket.”

“Well, I don’t think you left a wallet,” she says, stepping to the side to give me space. “You’d have heard me shaking it by now.”

I chuckle, short. “Appreciate the honesty.”

She shrugs, turns toward the back corner of the garage. Moves like she wants me out of here. She’s not rushing, but she’s managing the flow of the moment. That’s not mechanic behavior. That’s something else. I’ve seen people guide conversations like that. People who want to stay out of sight.

“Sal didn’t say you were the only one here,” I say, watching her hands as she sets the wrench down. “Hell of a setup for a one-woman operation.”

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