Chapter 2: Cold Deals and Colder Hearts

By the time I got to the funeral home, it was already 11 p.m. I saw the car—it was the very BMW I’d sold to Derek. The front end was totaled, but the engine was intact. With some repairs, it could still be sold.

The parking lot was bathed in pale yellow streetlights. The smell of formaldehyde hung in the air. I recognized the dented BMW instantly—license plate still crooked from the last accident.

The chill of the embalming room seeped into my bones, and the fluorescent lights made everything look washed out and unreal. I also saw the body. It was Derek. He’d died horribly—half his head caved in.

The mortician’s white gloves were still stained. I paused for a moment of silence, then let out a tired sigh.

I asked Old Joe what had happened. Derek was just at my shop that morning—how could he be dead so soon?

Joe wiped his brow, voice low. “It was bad, Carter. Hit the pillar head-on. There was no saving him.”

Old Joe said Derek had a car accident at noon. He’d been drinking heavily, crashed on Franklin Avenue. Luckily, there weren’t many people around, or it could have been much worse.

Franklin Avenue—always a trouble spot, sharp turn, no guardrail. The cops keep warning folks, but nobody listens.

I was about to ask more when two women walked over. One was Aubrey. She was chatting and laughing with her friend, not looking sad at all.

It struck me as odd—her makeup was perfect, not a tear in sight. She looked like she was heading to brunch, not a funeral home.

Aubrey saw me and greeted me. "Boss, how much will you give me for this car?"

She said it like she was selling a pair of shoes, not her ex’s last ride. I stared at her, but she met my eyes without a flicker.

I’ve seen all kinds of people, but never someone as heartless as Aubrey. Derek’s body wasn’t even cold, and she was already selling the car.

Joe caught my eye and shook his head slowly, as if to say: 'You believe this?'

I said sternly, "Aubrey, you’re selling the car a little too fast. Derek hasn’t even had his memorial service yet. Aren’t you afraid he’ll come looking for you at midnight to talk about selling the car? And the car isn’t even in your name, is it?"

She rolled her eyes, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "What’s he gonna do, haunt me? The paperwork’s done. He transferred it over this morning. I was planning to sell it, but he went and got himself killed. So, what’s your price? After all that, this car’s all I’ve got to show for the last year."

She let out a little snort. "He never had the guts to stand up to me when he was alive—why would that change now? He transferred the car to me this morning. I was going to consign it to a dealership, but he had an accident at noon. Just give me a price. After more than a year with him, all I got was this car."

Some folks collect heartbreak like parking tickets. Aubrey seemed determined to cash in on hers.

An engagement ring, a wedding house, and she still says she got nothing. I really pitied Derek.

For a second, I thought about the little things—their photos on Instagram, the promise of new beginnings. All that, gone in a day.

"I sold this car to him for $8,200. Now that he’s gone, I’ll buy it back for the same price."

I was actually losing money on this, but since the man was dead, there was no point arguing.

Old Joe raised his eyebrows, like he thought I was crazy. I just shrugged—it was the right thing to do.

Aubrey was satisfied. With the car so badly damaged, she hadn’t expected to get the full price back. I told her to come to my shop the next day for the paperwork. She agreed, even calling me a good person and promising to send business my way in the future.

Her smile was too bright, her handshake too firm. For a second, I wondered if she believed a word she said.

I shook my head. "Aubrey, do you believe in karma?"

The words slipped out, heavy in the still air. Sometimes, I just can't help myself.

Aubrey froze, then called me crazy and left with her friend.

Her laughter echoed down the hall, careless and sharp.

Some people grieve with tears. Others with a handshake and a price. I guess you never really know which until the chips are down.

A month passed after Derek’s death. I had the BMW repaired—the front end cost me over $1,100. Luckily, my original purchase price was low, so after repairs, there was still some profit left.

The mechanic, Vince, grumbled about blood stains in the carpet, but a bottle of bleach and some elbow grease took care of most of it. A little air freshener, and it almost seemed normal again.

I was just about to put the car up for sale again when a young man showed up at the shop. He looked about twenty, hanging around outside for a while before coming in.

He wore a faded hoodie, eyes darting everywhere, the kind of kid who’d rather text than talk. I watched him fidget with his phone for a full five minutes before he finally came in.

I’d seen this type before, so I went out to greet him. "Looking for a car, man?"

He nodded and asked quietly, "You got anything cool but cheap?"

His tone was low, almost conspiratorial, as if he expected me to hand him a ghost in a box.

I grinned. "Yep, second-hand accident cars. Come in, have a seat—I’ve got all kinds."

The coffee in my pot was burnt, but I poured him a cup anyway. He wrapped his hands around it, not drinking—just warming his fingers.

I made him a cup of coffee. He introduced himself as Marcus Quinn, and said he wanted a cheap car for commuting—something with a bit of status.

He said 'status' like he’d been practicing the word in the mirror. Probably watched too many YouTube car reviews.

What a coincidence—I had just the thing.

"You came at the right time. I’ve got a 2020 BMW X1 that fits your needs. Condition’s good. So far, only two people have died in it—it’s got the lowest body count in my shop."

The look on his face barely flickered. Most people would’ve balked, but Marcus just nodded, like he was checking a box on a spreadsheet.

He blinked. "How much?"

He was all business—no ghost stories, no hesitation. It made me suspicious.

His reaction made me suspicious. Most people flinch when they hear about deaths, but Marcus only cared about the price.

"$8,200. Are you sure you’re driving it yourself?"

His eyes darted to the window, calculating. I leaned forward, searching for a tell.

Honestly, after repairs, I was barely making anything at that price.

Marcus hesitated, then said quickly, "Of course I’ll drive it myself. Boss, can you go lower? How about $7,000?"

He tried to haggle, but the tone was all wrong—too rushed. My gut told me he wasn’t buying for himself.

"Man, a 2020 BMW X1—if not for the two deaths, how could it be this cheap? Not a cent less. If you think it’s expensive, I’ve got other brands. There’s one where everyone in the car died—only $3,100."

I pulled up the listing on my tablet, showing him a battered Chevy that had more ghosts than miles left on it.

Marcus’s face changed. He shook his head. "No, just the BMW. I’ll take it."

He said it too fast, confirming my suspicion. But a sale is a sale.

The deal went smoothly. Marcus took a short test drive, added me on Facebook Messenger, and drove the car away.

He barely looked back, just gave a quick wave and disappeared into traffic. I scribbled his info on a sticky note, just in case.

That afternoon, I was bored and scrolled through my Facebook feed. What I saw stunned me: Marcus had posted, "Congrats to my brother for getting a BMW."

There was a photo—his brother, tall and clean-cut, standing next to the Beemer with a grin. My jaw clenched.

Damn, he’d bought the car for his brother. I was instantly annoyed.

The nerve of some people—passing off an accident car as a gift. Like I wouldn’t find out. Small town, remember?

I messaged Marcus: "Man, why’s the car for your brother?"

I kept it civil, but my blood was boiling. I don’t like being lied to.

Instead of explaining, he just blocked me.

The little checkmark on Messenger disappeared. That’s when I knew—he didn’t care about karma, or honesty, or anything but the deal.

These days, even blood brothers will pull a fast one on you.

You’d think family would mean more. But around here, money talks, and sometimes blood runs thin.

Later that night, after the paperwork and the silent drive home, I sat in my truck outside the shop. I stared at the BMW’s dented hood, thinking about Derek, Aubrey, and all the deals that never ended this way. Sometimes, the ghosts aren’t in the cars—they’re in the stories we carry with us.