I had expected to find Moose working, but in spite of the fact that every light inside the place was on and stadium-type lighting flooded the parking lot, the shop appeared deserted. Even Scotty’s lawn chair sat empty in the parking lot with only a trash bag of empty beer cans to show that he’d ever been there at all. I fought down an uneasy feeling and told myself to get a grip, that I was just edgy from the almost-hit-and-run and the possibility that someone might have done it on purpose. I looked into the three open bays—empty—then stepped into a small, greasy-smelling office. Half a dozen clipboards crammed full of invoices hung from hooks on a wall, and an open package of snack cakes and two half-empty cups of coffee in take-out cups acted as paperweights for another stack of paper. A cell phone lay half-buried under junk mail, and a pair of pale blue stilettos had been kicked off under the desk. “Hello? Moose? Destiny? Is anyone here?”
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