Chapter 3: The Fine Print

In my business, you have to be clear about the car’s condition—the owner needs to know everything. Marcus bought the car, but it was actually for his brother. I was sure he hadn’t told his brother the truth.

When you sell a car with a story, the story is part of the deal. If the new owner doesn’t know it, trouble always finds its way back.

I guarantee the car’s quality, but not everyone can accept a car with this kind of history. Luckily, Marcus left contact info, so it wasn’t hard to find him.

It pays to keep records. I learned that the hard way after a Mustang I sold ended up in a Halloween parade—long story.

That afternoon, I closed up shop and went to Maple Heights Estates. It’s an old development, but property prices are still $220 per square foot. As I reached Building 15, I saw the BMW parked by the curb.

I drove slow past the manicured lawns, kids playing with chalk on the sidewalk. The Beemer was there, gleaming under a layer of dust.

I didn’t go upstairs. Instead, I called the number left on the dashboard for moving the car. In less than five minutes, a man in his thirties came rushing down. He headed straight for the car, looking confused.

He was out of breath, keys in hand, glancing around as if expecting to find a parking ticket on the windshield.

I greeted him. "Hello, I’m the one who called. Are you Marcus Quinn’s older brother?"

He hesitated, but nodded, sizing me up like I was selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door.

He froze. "Yes, I’m Nathan Quinn. And you are?"

I offered a handshake, keeping things friendly. "Carter, Victory Used Car Lot. I sold your brother the Beemer."

"Mr. Quinn, I’m Carter, owner of Victory Used Car Lot. Your brother bought this car from me."

Nathan replied, "Mr. Carter, what’s this about? Did my brother owe you money?"

His tone was cautious, the way folks get when someone mentions bills or collections.

He clearly knew his brother’s style.

Marcus must’ve pulled stunts like this before. I could see the resignation in Nathan’s eyes.

I shook my head. "No, but I’m not sure if your brother told you—this car is a bit special."

I tried to keep my voice low—no need for the neighbors to overhear.

"My brother said it’s a used car."

He shrugged, hands in his pockets. No idea what he’d signed up for.

Sure enough, Nathan only knew the basics.

I continued, "Mr. Quinn, it’s not just any used car. Two people have died in it. The last owner died just days after buying it. If you want, I can buy it back for the original price."

The words landed heavy. He blinked, mouth opening, then closing again. But no anger—just confusion.

I kept it brief, expecting Nathan to get angry, but he just looked puzzled.

Before I could explain further, a man carrying groceries came back—it was Marcus. The moment he saw me, his face fell.

He wore that look—like he’d seen a teacher talking to his mom after school. The bags nearly slipped from his hands.

"Why are you here? What are you telling my brother?"

He stepped between us, almost blocking Nathan with his shoulder.

He turned to Nathan. "Don’t believe him, bro. He sold the car too cheap and tried to get more money out of me. I refused, so now he’s bothering you. Did he say two people died in this car, and that he’d buy it back if you cared?"

Marcus rattled off the whole thing like he’d rehearsed it. If this was poker, he was all-in on the bluff.

Unbelievable—Marcus got everything exactly right.

He must’ve known I’d come. Some people think three moves ahead—too bad it’s always the wrong game.

I had a feeling Nathan would fall for his brother’s story. Sure enough, Nathan sided with Marcus.

Nathan sighed, looking at me with that tired, 'not again' expression. Blood may be thicker than water, but sometimes it’s just thicker.

"Mr. Carter, that’s not how business works. You signed a contract, you can’t go back on it just because you sold it cheap. That would ruin your reputation."

He was lecturing me like a teacher scolding a kid for chewing gum in class. I bit my tongue.

I was speechless. I was trying to help, but he was lecturing me.

I took a deep breath, reminded myself that I’d done my duty.

I said, "Mr. Quinn, if you don’t believe me, have your brother show you the contract. Or come to my shop—I’ll show you. It’s all written down."

I reached for my business card, but Marcus shot me a look that said, 'Not in this lifetime.'

Before Nathan could answer, Marcus interrupted, "You’re so annoying! The car’s sold—why keep pestering us? My brother’s got a blind date this afternoon, and this car is his confidence booster."

He started nudging Nathan toward the entrance, groceries swinging by his side. The two of them vanished into the stairwell.

With that, Marcus dragged Nathan away. The two brothers didn’t look back as they headed upstairs.

I’d done all I could—said everything I should. As far as after-sales service goes, I’d fulfilled my duty.

Sometimes, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it read the fine print.

I left the community and headed back to the shop. As I reached the door, I saw a girl pacing outside. She kept glancing at the notice on my door, phone in hand, but hesitated to call.

She was probably a student, by the look of her backpack and the anxious way she bounced on her toes.

I’d seen this type before—just shy about asking the price. I approached her. "Miss, looking for a car?"

She jumped, then looked at me. "Are you the boss? I want to buy a car someone died in."

Her voice was softer than expected, but there was a certain determination in her eyes. Some folks are drawn to the dark, no matter their age.