Are you possessed?” Clayton Harper smiled at Leigh Truitt as she stuck her head out from under the hood of the battered ’32 Ford Coupe. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail wound in tight curls from the humid Atlanta summer and grease marks from the car stained her otherwise luminescent complexion. “Possessed? Come on, this is as good as it gets!” Clay said as he checked out the motor with Leigh, and tried not to notice how fresh and pure she smelled as they stood close together. “It’s a real Brooksville.” The car was parked in front of his house—Booth had dropped it off so Leigh could take a look in between the shifts she served at Sizzlin’ Joe’s restaurant. Her mechanic uncle helped Leigh with her hobby of refurbishing then reselling cars. Clay preferred she check out the car here instead of her uncle’s shop, which was located on an isolated, unpaved road before shallow woods, as if forgotten by time. “Look,” Leigh said finally as she completed diagnosing the automobile.
