Chapter 62 The Crash

Chapter 62 The Crash
Tasha's POV

"HIS NAME is—"
A deafening crash exploded from outside the garage.
The sound was so violent that both Old Man Reyes and I jumped from our seats. A second later came the screech of twisting metal, followed by shouting from somewhere beyond the garage doors.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then Old Man Reyes cursed under his breath.
"What now?"
The question wasn't directed at me. It sounded more like a complaint aimed at the universe itself. Another voice shouted from outside. Then another.
The uneasy feeling in my stomach immediately returned. Whatever had happened, it wasn't minor.
Without waiting for either of us to say anything else, Old Man Reyes pushed himself out of his chair and headed toward the garage. I followed close behind, my pulse quickening with every step.
The moment we stepped outside, the scene came into view.
A delivery truck sat crooked across the narrow street, its front bumper visibly damaged. Several cardboard boxes had spilled across the pavement, their contents scattered everywhere.
A motorcycle lay on its side a few feet away.
The sight made my heart nearly stop. "Oh my God."
A small crowd had already gathered around the wreck. And right in the middle of the chaos stood a young woman.
She was standing, not lying down, she wasn’t even unconscious.
Which was impressive considering the motorcycle beside her looked considerably worse than she did.
"What do you mean I can't ride it?" the woman demanded. She pointed accusingly at the motorcycle. "It's literally right there."
One of the delivery workers stared at her as though she'd lost her mind. "Because you just crashed into a truck!"
"I barely crashed." 
The man blinked. "You hit me."
"I tapped you."
"You flew over the handlebars!” the man shouted.
"That's a very dramatic interpretation of events."
I stopped walking. Old Man Reyes stopped beside me. We both stared.
The woman couldn't have been much older than I was. She had dark brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail, though half of it had escaped during the accident. Dirt streaked one side of her cheek. There was a tear in the sleeve of her leather jacket, and blood trickled from a scrape on her forearm.
Yet somehow she looked more annoyed than injured. An ambulance siren echoed faintly in the distance.
The delivery driver pointed toward the sound. "See? They're coming."
The woman folded her arms. "Tell them not to."
Several people exchanged confused looks.
The driver looked ready to cry. "I think you hit your head."
"No, I hit your truck."
The driver opened his mouth. Then looked toward the sky as if searching for divine intervention. I had never seen anyone argue with medical assistance before.
Apparently today was full of surprises.
Old Man Reyes pinched the bridge of his nose. "I already have a headache," he muttered.
Then he walked toward the accident scene. The crowd immediately parted for him. Years of owning the local garage apparently earned a certain amount of authority.
"What happened?" he asked.
Everyone started talking at once. The result was complete nonsense.
The young woman rolled her eyes dramatically. "I'll translate."
Several people glared at her. She ignored them.
"The truck stopped suddenly. I braked. Physics got involved. Everybody overreacted."
Old Man Reyes examined her for several seconds.
His expression remained unimpressed. "Are you hurt?"
"No."
Blood dripped from her arm. He pointed at it.
She looked down. "Oh. That."
"That's called bleeding."
"I've heard of it."
Despite the situation, I nearly laughed. The woman noticed and our eyes met for the first time. Something flickered across her expression. Curiosity or assessment. The kind of look people gave when they were trying to figure someone out.
Then she smiled. "Finally."
I blinked. "Finally what?"
"Someone here looks sane."
Old Man Reyes made a choking sound. I bit the inside of my cheek.
The woman pointed toward the delivery driver. "That guy has spent ten minutes insisting I need a stretcher."
"You might," the driver argued.
"I walked here."
"After flying off a motorcycle."
She sighed dramatically. "We keep returning to that."
The argument clearly wasn't ending anytime soon. The ambulance arrived moments later. Two paramedics stepped out and immediately approached.
The woman visibly groaned. "No."
One paramedic raised an eyebrow. "No? You haven't even heard what I'm going to say."
"I know exactly what you're going to say."
The paramedic crossed his arms. "Then let's hear it."
The woman pointed at herself. "You're going to tell me I need to be examined. Then you're going to recommend a hospital. So I'm going to refuse."
The paramedic sighed. "You've done this before."
"A few times."
Old Man Reyes looked horrified. "A few?"
The woman smiled proudly. "Motorcycles and I have a complicated relationship."
I couldn't help it. The laugh escaped before I could stop it. The woman looked toward me again.
The paramedics eventually convinced her to sit down while they examined her arm. She complained the entire time. Not once did she seem frightened. Not once did she appear embarrassed.
If anything, she seemed annoyed that the accident was delaying whatever she had originally planned to do.
After several minutes, one of the paramedics finally approached Old Man Reyes. "Nothing serious," he said. "Some bruising. Minor cuts. She should still get checked properly."
The woman stood again before anyone could stop her. Then she glanced toward the damaged motorcycle. She walked over and crouched beside it. 
Immediately, her entire demeanor changed. The sarcasm disappeared. The teasing vanished.
She examined the motorcycle carefully, checking the frame, wheels, and engine housing with surprisingly practiced movements.
I watched her for several moments. That wasn't the behavior of a casual rider. She knew exactly what she was looking at.
Old Man Reyes apparently noticed too. "You understand engines."
It wasn't a question.
The woman looked up. "Of course."
The answer came so quickly that it almost sounded offended. "What kind of response is that?"
"The correct one."
A reluctant smile appeared on Old Man Reyes' face. The first one I'd seen all evening. 
The woman stood and brushed dust from her hands. "The fork is bent. The front brake assembly took damage. I'll need replacement parts."
"You figured that out already?"
She shrugged. "I have eyes."
I exchanged a glance with Old Man Reyes. He looked interested. Which was usually dangerous.
The woman eventually followed us into the garage so Old Man Reyes could inspect the motorcycle properly.
According to her, she was only agreeing because she needed an expert opinion.
According to Old Man Reyes, she was agreeing because she was stubborn enough to ignore everyone else.
Neither seemed willing to admit the other might be right.
I followed behind them as they entered the workshop. The familiar scent of oil and machinery filled the air again. And then, I remembered the conversation that had been interrupted.
The name. The man who had known I existed. The answer I had been seconds away from hearing.
My stomach tightened.
I turned toward Old Man Reyes. "Abuelo, about what we were discussing—"
The words died in my throat. Because the young woman had suddenly stopped walking. Completely stopped.
Her gaze was fixed on something across the room.
A photograph.
The old framed photograph hanging near the office door. Ricardo Hamilton.
For the briefest moment, all humor vanished from her face. The change happened so quickly that most people would have missed it. But I didn't.
I had spent months studying reactions. Looking for lies. Searching for hidden truths.
And what I saw wasn't confusion. It wasn't simple recognition. It was shock.
Pure, unmistakable shock.
The woman froze for less than a second before recovering. Then the smile returned. As though it had never disappeared at all. But I had seen it.
And suddenly, I wasn't thinking about the motorcycle anymore. I wasn't thinking about the accident. I wasn't even thinking about the answer Old Man Reyes had been about to give me.
I was staring at the stranger standing in our garage and wondering one thing.
Why had the sight of Ricardo Hamilton's photograph affected her like that?