Page 22 of Prospect’s Curvy Vinyl Girl

Fifty records hit the floor. The plastic casings crack. The sound is a gunshot in the quiet shop.

My vision goes red. I lunge forward.

Tyler catches me. He doesn't just hold me back; he wraps an immovable arm around my waist, pinning my back to his chest. He hauls me against his body, absorbing my forward momentum.

"Don't," he murmurs into my ear. His breath is hot. The command is final.

Wally steps up to us. He’s close enough that I smell stale beer and cheap tobacco. He stares at Tyler, trying to provoke a reaction. Trying to find the lie.

Tyler stares back. He plays the coward perfectly. He shifts his weight, looks down, tightens his grip on me like a nervous civilian protecting his family. But his chest—pressed flush against my spine—is still. His pulse is a slow, rhythmic thud. A metronome of pure violence. He isn't scared. He’s calculating how long it would take to snap all three of their necks.

"Stay out of the way, Tom," Wally says. He points a finger at my face. "Tuesday’s coming, Wendy. The lieutenant wants a twenty percent bump. Hazard pay. Consider this a friendly reminder of the new corporate tax bracket."

They turn around. They walk out. The door swings shut, the little brass bell violently jingling, mocking the devastation left in their wake.

The engine rumbles to life. The headlights sweep away into the dark.

Tyler drops his arm. The second his weight leaves my back, the cold rushes in.

I stare at the floor. The scattered records. The cracked sleeves. The jazz section my mother used to play on Sunday mornings when the rain hit the front windows. My throat tightens. The suffocating weight of Crimson Hollow presses down on my lungs. There’s no way out. There’s never been a way out. I’m going to die in this shop, drowning in my mother's ghost, handing over protection money until I bleed dry.

"Wendy."

I drop to my knees. I start gathering the records. My hands are numb. The cardboard’s bent. A 1964 pressing of Coltrane, the corner permanently creased.

"Wendy. Stop."

He crouches beside me. His calloused hands cover mine. The heat of his skin burns through the cold shock vibrating in my bones.

"They ruined it," I whisper. My voice cracks. I hate the sound of it. I hate the weakness. "It took her three years to track this one down. They just... they just dumped it like garbage."

Tyler takes the record from my trembling hands. He sets it gently on the counter. Then he grips my forearms and pulls me up.

He doesn't offer empty comfort. He doesn't tell me it's going to be okay. He looks at me, his dark eyes stripped of the "Tom" mask. There’s nothing but the killer underneath.

"They’re dead." His voice is flat. Final. "The man who signed that order. The man who collects the money. The men who just walked out that door. They’re all dead."

The unfiltered truth of it slams into my chest. The Ignition. That gravitational pull that anchors me to him. He isn't making a threat. He’s stating a fact.

"Tyler," I breathe, using his real name. The only true thing he’s given me.

His jaw tics. He hates the mess. He hates that they touched my things. He hates that he had to stand there and play the coward while they disrespected my sanctuary.

He turns away, marching through the beaded curtain into the back room.

I follow him.

The back room is dim, lit only by the thrifted lamp with the yellowed shade. The single mattress sits on the low wooden frame. Tyler’s digging under the mattress. He pulls out a manila envelope.

The envelope is stuffed with paper.

He walks back into the main shop. He clears a space on the oak counter, sweeping a stack of unsorted 45s out of the way. He rips the metal clasp open and dumps the contents onto the wood.

Passports. Driver's licenses. Stacked dossiers. Employee histories. Bank statements. Dozens of them.

"No more covers," Tyler says. He plants his hands flat on the counter, leaning over the scattered files. The muscles in his forearms jump. "You asked me who I was. I told you my name. It wasn't enough."

I step up to the counter. I look at the files.