The chrome detail shimmered under the flashlight, reflecting her wide-eyed expression back at her. Clara stumbled back. She rushed to the next one, pulled back the cover.
A Porsche 356. Then another. A Mercedes 300 SL Gullwing.
She ran down the row now, one after the next. Bugatti. Aston Martin.
Shelby Cobra. Jaguar XK120. It was like walking through the dreams of every car lover on earth.
She stopped in the center of the room and turned in a slow circle. They were everywhere. At least 30 of them.
Every cover she pulled revealed something rarer. Something impossible. Some of these cars she had only ever seen in magazines.
Some she’d thought were lost to history. Each vehicle had a small brass plaque beside it. Each plaque had a year.
A model. A restoration note. All meticulously kept.
At the far end of the underground room, there was a desk. An old-school, solid oak kind of desk. Clara approached it cautiously, her legs still shaky.
On top, a leather-bound ledger sat open. She brushed the dust off and leaned in. Collection log.
Bernard Whitaker. Every car was listed. Purchase date.
Parts used. Hours logged. Condition.
Current value. At the bottom of the last page, one line had been added in shaky handwriting. Collection complete.
34 vehicles. Estimated total value $108,300,000. Secure until ready.
Clara sat down hard in the wooden chair behind the desk, her breath shallow, heart pounding. $108,000,000. She pressed her hand to her chest, as if that would stop it from hammering out of her ribs.
Her fingers trembled against the page. This wasn’t a garage. It was a sanctuary.
A museum? A time capsule sealed away beneath a crumbling shop on the edge of a forgotten town. And for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand, it now belonged to her. She looked back at the cars, silent and regal under their fitted covers.
