His Sports Car

My name is Whitney Lynn. As I pushed open the study door, the night wind swept up the corner of the curtain. Moonlight poured in obliquely, falling upon Cameron Jones' hand, which held the mobile phone. The screen suddenly brightened, a message flashing up. The sender's note read "Stella." "The car's dashboard always grows hot at midnight, as if a fire burns inside the engine." Cameron Jones' finger hesitated on the screen for half a second. In that fleeting moment, I glimpsed the thin calluses on his fingertip — hardened by years of clutching the steering wheel. The next instant, he swiftly extinguished the mobile phone; the screen's afterglow cast a faint shadow across his face, like a lingering smudge left uncleaned. "Who?" I set the freshly warmed milk upon the mahogany table. The cup was made of bone china; the faint clinking as its base struck the table sounded piercingly clear in the stillness, like a needle falling on cotton. "It's about work." He leaned back against the chair, his Adam's apple moving as he swallowed. The light spilled over his neck, revealing veins tinted a bluish shade. "Why are you still awake?" I remained silent. My eyes crossed over his shoulder, resting on the fresh scratch upon his wrist. It shone red, the edges still bearing traces of scabbed white. Last week, he said he went to the racetrack to fine-tune the new car; when he returned, this wound had appeared. At the time, he only said he was scratched by a part; I did not inquire further. "Who is Stella Collins?" I asked. My tone was flat, as if remarking on today's weather. Cameron Jones' brow twitched sharply. The twitch was fierce, like a cat suddenly stepped on its tail, every hair on its body standing on end. He avoided my gaze and stared into the pitch-black night sky. "A... friend who understands cars." His fingers curled slightly on his knee. "Why do you ask?" "She knows your car so intimately that she can tell when the dashboard is overheating?" I lifted the car keys he had left at the table's corner. My fingertips met the metal surface, still warm with his body heat, faintly moist with sticky sweat. "Cameron Jones, the car's dashboard is engineered to maintain a constant temperature." He abruptly rose to his feet. The hem of his suit jacket brushed the table, stirring a small gust. The milk cup wavered; the brown liquid traced sinuous paths along the cup's inner wall, like a winding serpent. "Whitney Lynn, you've been acting increasingly strange lately." His voice was heavy with restrained irritation, each word squeezed out through clenched teeth. "Always so suspicious and paranoid; can't you just behave yourself?" I looked at him. His tie was crooked—the very one I had helped him knot that morning. Back then, he was still smiling as he pinched my cheek, saying, "Whitney's hands are the most skillful."