I stood in the middle of the workshop yard while the flashing blue lights from a passing police car disappeared around the corner.
The broken window wasn’t the worst part. Neither was the spray paint covering the Lawson Customs sign. It was the feeling.
Someone had stood exactly where I was standing now, looked at the garage Uncle Will had spent his entire life building and decided it deserved to be destroyed.
That hurt more than shattered glass ever could, and I let out a slow breath before rubbing my hands over my face.
“Well, this definitely isn’t improving the property’s street appeal,” I muttered, and Hunter walked over carrying two rubbish bins.
“I don’t know. If we squint really hard, it almost looks artistic,” he said, looking at the graffiti, and I turned to look at him.
“If
