Twelve hours later, stiff, sore and starving, Jane shut off Monica’s computer, threw her purse over her shoulder, fisted her keys and locked up the office. Weary and wobbling on her high heels, she trudged out to the parking lot. As soon as her liquefied gray matter registered what she saw, she was wide awake.
Someone was towing her—or, Monica’s—car! Kicking off her shoes, she ran toward the man operating the winch that was slowly dragging the flashy gold car up on a flatbed truck. “Stop! What do you think you’re doing? This isn’t a no- parking zone, for God’s sake. It’s a parking lot.”
The grizzly-looking character who resembled a bouncer at some local biker bar gave her a quick once-over then grinned. “I know that. But I have orders to repossess this car. I have a court order, signed by a judge. It’s all legal.” He pulled out a bundle of papers from the truck’s cab and waved them at her. “Orders from whom? There must be some mistake.”
“Orders from the gentleman who owns this car, miss, and the judge who signed this.” He gave her another up and down assessment then unfolded the documents and scanned them. “I’m guessing Mr. Foxx’s not so pleased with you anymore.” He folded them and tucked them under his meaty arm and returned to operating the winch.
“What? I…” Oh, she was so steamed she couldn’t speak. “I own this car. It was given to me by my boyfriend.”The man waved the papers again. “The papers I have say it don’t belong to a woman. It’s owned by a fella and he wants it back.”
“Let me see that.” She lunged forward but he quickly pulled it out of her reach. “Uh-uh. You can’t look at this. It’s confidential.” “But it’s my car!” “The State of Michigan says otherwise.” He gently pushed her away as he walked toward the rear of the truck. “Now, be a good girl and move aside so I can finish up here.” As he secured the car, he set the papers on the truck bed. “I don’t want no trouble. I’m just doin’ my job, miss.”
She saw the opportunity and ran with it, quickly swiping the papers before the thug could stop her, and made a mad dash back toward the building. She read the name and address as she ran, trying hard to ingrain it in her foggy, overwrought brain until she had a chance to write it down. Fortunately, the address wasn’t difficult to memorize. And neither was the name, Jason Foxx, 388 Harding Lane, Franklin.
Maybe it was time to pay Monica’s ex-boyfriend, Mr. Nasty—what kind of man would repossess a car given as a gift?—a little visit and talk some sense into the man. Fearing being tackled, she dropped the papers on the ground and went inside to call a taxi, hoping Monica kept a decent amount of cash in her purse. Otherwise, it would be a long, long walk to Franklin
