The word stayed in the air long after the screen dimmed.
Brakes.
Adrian didn't blink.
He didn't breathe.
He just stood there, staring at my phone like it had detonated.
"Adrian," I whispered.
His jaw tightened so hard I thought it might crack.
"Who else knows about that?" I asked quietly.
He didn't answer immediately.
That silence said too much.
"Adrian."
He finally looked at me.
Not composed.
Not masked.
Not distant.
Terrified.
"It was ruled mechanical failure," he said slowly.
"Was it?"
"Yes."
"But?"
"But nothing."
The word was sharp.
Too sharp.
"Then why does that message scare you?" I pressed.
He stepped back slightly, like he needed space to think.
"I never told anyone about the inspection," he said.
My pulse quickened.
"What inspection?"
He closed his eyes briefly.
"The police report mentioned brake wear," he said. "But it was dismissed. Faulty maintenance. Old car."
"And you didn't believe that."
Silence.
"That's not what I asked."
