Page 8 of Furious

And three weeks before she died. Which I don’t tell this girl.

She looks at the picture, then back at me. “Wow, that’s impressive. She’s pretty.”

“She was,” I agree. “And she was really, really fast. She taught me to drive. Before moving here, I raced cars as a job. Well, karts. Which is hardly a job, but it was fun and sometimes I made money off it.”

“I race, too!” she exclaims, dropping the PI attitude for the first time to fully smile, and the shift is adorable. “Or I did. Not as a job, though, and not cars. But maybe I’ve heard of your mom; is she famous?”

I shrug. “You might know her—DeeDee Emerson?”

“That sounds familiar.”

“She was a NASCAR champion.”

Recognition lights up her eyes. “Wait! I know how I know her. We have this plaque dedicated to her at work!”

I could ask more questions about that, but I leave it. Lots of places have plaques about my mom. DeeDee Emerson bought tires here. DeeDee Emerson signed our wall. DeeDee Emerson ate a cheeseburger in this very booth. It’s nothing new, and I don’t feel like getting into all that mess with this girl. “Do you follow the circuit?” I ask instead.

She shakes her head. “I don’t really watch NASCAR.”

“What about F1? The F1 Academy, which is the successor to the W Series?”

“What’s that?”

A long sigh rushes out of me. Patience. It’s not this girl’s fault that most people outside of racing don’t know about the F1 Academy or how it’s changing the sport. “It’s a training program for elite female race car drivers. It helps them get into F1 someday, which is my goal in life.”

“So what are you doing working here?” the girl asks. “I mean, if you’re a race car driver and your mom’s famous?”

“I work here because it’s our family business.” No need to tell her my entire sad backstory. “Hey, what’s your name?”

The girl considers me for a long moment. “I’m Eliana—El—Blum. I’m looking for information about my sister, Maxine Blum. She used to work here, until three months ago.”

“Where is she now?”

“That’s what I want to talk to Jolene about. I’m hoping she has an address for her.”

“Why don’t you have her address if she’s your sister? How does a private investigator lose a sister?”

As soon as the words are out, I regret them. Because, as I know, there are all sorts of ways to lose people. And El’s sister is none of my business.

She winces, but answers the question I wish I could take back. “I didn’t. There was this … incident, with the town fountain … it wasn’t really even Max’s fault. She made a mistake. Max is a really good sister,” El insists. “And she races, too, you know, but bikes. She’s amazing on a track. You’d like her.”

“Sure. I like her sister,” I say with a boldness I do not see coming.

El blushes furiously. “Um, thanks. But um, my parents kicked her out. She had to leave, and she’s been moving around ever since.”

“Oh. Okay… .”

“Anyway.” El clears her throat, back to business once more. “I got this postcard from her today.” She pulls it out from her bag, holding it up to show me the Greetings from Boston printed across the front.

“Looks like she’s in Boston?”

“Boston is a huge city. I can’t just show up downtown and call her name in the middle of the Common. I’ll never find her without an address.”

I consider El again, noting the way her hands clench the desk as she looks hopefully at me. Her tough-girl vibe is gone, and she just looks vulnerable and sad and lost.

All feelings I know too well.

Wishing I could give her a hug but not wanting to be that kind of weirdo, I stand up and go to the filing cabinet. “I don’t think Grandma Jolene keeps tabs on every employee she’s ever had. Especially after they’re gone.” I rifle through the top drawer—the only one that’s unlocked—hoping I find a folder that says “Maxine Blum” on it.