Zara Voss had learned to live in the quiet. She juggled three part-time jobs—day shifts at Archer's Auto Shop, evening shifts at a diner, and the occasional late-night delivery gig—just to make ends meet. Life wasn't glamorous, but it was stable, and stability was all she had left.
Yet, no matter how much she tried to blend into the background, people still recognized her. The Zara Voss. The former underground racing star. The girl who disappeared after that night.
She ignored the lingering stares when she dropped off coffee at a booth, the hushed whispers when customers connected the grease-streaked waitress to the legend they once cheered for. It didn't matter. That life was over.
Or so she thought.
The neon buzz of streetlights flickered against the rain-slick pavement as Zara walked home from her shift. Her fingers still smelled like engine grease, and the ache in her shoulders reminded her of the long hours spent under hoods instead of behind the wheel.
Then her phone buzzed.
She pulled it out of her jacket pocket, half-expecting a message from Noor about some last-minute shop order. But the sender was unknown. The message was short.
You forgot. Time to remember.
Zara stopped in her tracks. The air around her suddenly felt thinner, tighter, like someone had reached into her chest and squeezed. The words shouldn't have meant anything. They shouldn't have sent a chill down her spine or made her heart pound. But they did.
She swallowed hard, her fingers gripping the phone so tightly her knuckles turned white. It had been three years since she last raced. Three years since the accident that almost killed her. Three years since she lost everything.
And someone wanted her to remember.
—
Noor Hayes was waiting at her apartment when Zara arrived, a wrench in one hand and a sandwich in the other. The apartment was small, cluttered with auto magazines, spare parts, and half-finished sketches of engine blueprints. It wasn't much, but it was home.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Noor said, setting the wrench down and narrowing her eyes. "What happened?"
Zara hesitated before handing over her phone. Noor scanned the message, her expression hardening. "Who sent this?"
"No clue. No number. No name." Zara ran a hand through her hair. "I thought I was done with this."
"Apparently, someone disagrees." Noor leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "You think this is about—"
"Yes." The word came out sharper than intended. Zara exhaled, forcing herself to stay calm. "It has to be."
Noor didn't need to ask what it was. The night of Zara's crash had left more questions than answers, and even though Zara had tried to move on, the pieces never quite fit.
Noor sighed. "What do you want to do?"
"Nothing," Zara said immediately. "I'm not going back. I gave up racing for a reason."
Noor raised an eyebrow. "Did you, though?"
Zara shot her a glare. "Yes. I buried that life. I don't care who's trying to drag me back."
Noor took a slow bite of her sandwich, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. "Then why do you look like you're already considering it?"
"I'm not."
"You sure?"
Zara opened her mouth, ready to argue, but the words never came. Because the truth was, as much as she wanted to pretend she didn't care… she did. The message had rattled something inside her, something restless and unfinished. A part of her that still needed answers.
Noor set the sandwich down, watching her carefully. "You need to find out who sent this. Even if you don't want to race again, you can't ignore it. What if it's someone who knows what really happened that night?"
Zara's jaw tightened. She hated that Noor was right. Hated that, despite everything, she couldn't let this go.
"You don't have to do this alone," Noor added. "I'll help."
Zara took a deep breath. She had promised herself she would never go back. But promises had never been her strong suit.
She didn't say it out loud, but she knew Noor could see the decision forming in her eyes.
She wants to go back.