The next morning, Jr and I stood in the paddock at the Long Beach Grand Prix circuit.

It was the first time I’d been to a racetrack since the year started with “19” and everything had changed. Teams no longer rolled in with simple car haulers or pickup trucks. Now it was eighteen-wheelers that functioned like two-story mobile cities. The cars lived upstairs. The people and tools lived below. Cameras were everywhere. Speed Channel filming every moment of qualifying.

“Dad… who are all these people?” Jr asked, walking close beside me as a black-and-red Cadillac rumbled past on its way to pit lane.

“Race teams, buddy. I’ve got a friend who drives one of these cars.”

“You do?!” he squeaked.

“Yeah. She’s the one who sent the tickets.”

We made our way through the controlled chaos until we reached the big rig marked with the number 77. Stephanie McClaire’s team. Mechanics swarmed over a sleek, exotic machine with a badge I didn’t recognize—TVR. The car was right-hand drive. 

Strange?

“Johnny! You made it!”

McClaire’s voice carried over the air tools and engines. She waved from inside the hauler, already in her race suit, almost identical to the one she’d worn at the California 500, just with a few more sponsor logos. She didn’t look a day older than the last time I saw her. Immortal, indeed.

“And you must be Johnny’s son,” she said, crouching to Jr’s level with a warm smile. 

“Nice to meet you. I’m Stephanie McClaire.”

Jr managed a shy wave.

“I can’t believe it…” My voice cracked. 

“I wish you could understand how this feels.”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea, Johnny. How’ve you been?”

“Great. As you can see.” I put a hand on Jr’s shoulder. 

“If he’d been a girl, I was going to name her Stephanie after you. Fate had other ideas.”

“Good thing you’re a boy then, Jr!”McClaire laughed before getting serious again.

 “It’s good to see you. I can’t tell you how proud I am that you turned your life around after everything we put you through.”

“No,” I said. “The crap I put myself through. Speaking of… that other girl. The blonde. How’s she doing?”

McClaire’s expression shifted, just for a second. She glanced past me at the car, then back. 

“You remember her?”

“How could I forget? Even if her name’s completely gone now. Twenty years in sales will do that to a man.”

She nodded slowly, then changed the subject. 

“Come on. Let me introduce you to the team.”

First stop was a Latino man in a wheelchair. Young, probably only a few years out of college, but both legs were gone. He was wiping his hands on a rag that was more oil than cloth.

“Johnny, this is Donovan Martinez, crew chief and lead mechanic.”

“Oh, McClaire, don’t make me meet the money…” he groaned.

“Shut up, Donovan. Johnny’s not a sponsor. He’s a guest.” She gave him a look that could peel paint. He relented and offered a dirty hand.

“I’d shake, but mine are permanently filthy. A wheelchair through oil will do that.”

“No worries,” I said. 

“You’re clearly busy.”

“Two cars, two brands, two mountains of parts that don’t fit each other. McClaire, I swear these next two weekends are gonna be the death of me.”

“We’re only bringing the TVR for a couple of rounds,” she promised. 

“I won’t put you through too much hell.”

“Famous last words,” he muttered, rolling away. McClaire watched him go with fond exasperation. 

“He’s never let me down. I really need to hire another lead mechanic, though. Preferably one with legs.”

“I don’t know much about cars, but I’m available?” I offered, but she shook her head. 

“You’re going to hate working for me. Everything that happened in ’71 and a whole lot more since.” She pointed across the paddock. 

“That crimson Maserati Trofeo over there is Dashie’s car. He’s my lead driver in the Speed GT Championship. The TVR is my new toy. I bought it off a British team that’s switching to Mosler next year.”

“You’re actually chasing championships now?” I asked.

“Nope. But my drivers are. Less destructive that way.” She led us deeper into the hauler. 

“So… about that favor.” She stopped in front of a door that separated the front lounge area from the back workshop. For the first time since I’d known her, Stephanie McClaire looked uncertain. She rubbed the toe of her boot against an oily spot on the floor, buying time.

“I need you to teach me something,” she said at last.

“Sure. What?”

“How to be a good parent.”

Before I could respond, she opened the door.

Inside, a gentle giant of a man in a racing suit sat holding a baby girl. He was feeding her a bottle with practiced ease. The baby had red eyes.

Those red eyes.

The air left my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. I threw an arm out to stop Jr from going any farther.

Because what I was looking at was impossible.

“Star?” I whispered.

McClaire studied my face, then nodded once.

“The same girl who put that scar on your neck thirty-six years ago,” she said quietly. 

“Now one year old. I adopted her in Switzerland. To give her a chance at a different life. To keep her from becoming the assassin she was raised to be.”

My knees went weak. Dashie, the tall but gentle Black man with the kind eyes and New York accent, watched me carefully, one big hand steady on the baby’s back.

“McClaire, what the hell is going on?” I hissed.

“I can’t explain everything. If I do, it puts you and your son in danger. For Jr’s sake, I need you to trust me. To believe what I’m telling you.”

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re living proof that people can change. You went from a carjacker ready to throw his life away to a man who comes home every night to a wife and son who love him. I need you to show me how to do the same for her.” She stepped aside so I could see the baby clearly. 

“I need to make sure she never looks at me the way I looked at my own parents.”

The panic in my chest slowly ebbed, replaced by something heavier. Responsibility. The same weight I’d felt the night McClaire tossed me the Mustang keys.

“Do you believe me?” she asked.

I looked at the sleeping baby. At the faint scar on my own neck. At the woman who had once held a knife to my throat and was now helpless in someone else’s arms.

“I do,” I said, voice rough. 

“I can’t believe I’m saying it… but I do.”

Dashie let out a quiet breath and gently lowered the baby into a suspended hammock crib rigged from the ceiling with cables and soft padding. He slipped tiny ear muffs over her ears.

“I thought she was never gonna stop crying,” he muttered.

I could sympathize.

It took a while for the world to stop spinning.

I sat on the couch in the front of the hauler, staring at the gently swaying crib while baby Star slept. Jr had wandered back outside to watch the mechanics work, completely oblivious to the universe-altering revelation that had just happened ten feet away.

McClaire sat beside me, quiet and watchful.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Dashie said from the doorway, pulling on his balaclava.

 “I wouldn’t have believed it either if I hadn’t seen it happen with my own eyes.”

“Dashie,” McClaire warned.

“Why can’t I know?” I asked.

“That panic you felt? That urge to run? That was the universe telling you this was never supposed to be seen. But now that you have, and you’ve accepted it, you’re not in danger anymore, as long as we keep the status quo.” She met my eyes. 

“I can’t tell you anything else. Not for your sake, or Jr’s.”

I nodded slowly. I didn’t like it, but I understood.

“What do you need from me?” I asked. McClaire leaned back and let out a long breath. 

“I grew up… strange. When other girls were playing with dolls, I was learning which spoon went with which course. How to entertain a suitor. How to be the perfect noble daughter, but nothing more. I never learned what came after. That’s one of many reasons I’ve never married. I have no idea how to be in a real relationship.”

She laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“Later, life made me a tomboy. Objective-oriented, I keep emotions out of decisions, and I try to think about the big picture. I’ve got more in common with a father than a mother… but to Star, I can’t really be either. Not the way she deserves. I’m gone too much. My life is too strange. I need to be a good role model anyway, and I need a network of people I trust who can step in when I can’t be there.”

She looked at me, really looked at me, and for the first time I saw fear in Stephanie McClaire’s eyes.

“Count me in,” I said without hesitation. 

“Whatever you need. Including babysitting the little one while you race.” Her smile was blinding. 

“I know that’s not exactly a traditional role for a man~”

“I don’t care. Those rules change when you have a kid. Lesson one: I changed plenty of diapers, fed plenty of bottles, and made more goofy faces than I can count to get Jr to stop cr… Johnny Jr. Knock it off!”

Jr had climbed into the TVR’s cockpit again and was making engine noises. At my voice he froze, then sheepishly climbed out under the amused stares of the mechanics.

“That’s adorable. I’ll take him for a ride around the track before the weekend’s over.” McClaire laughed. 

“McClaire, are you qualifying this thing or what?” Donovan yelled from outside. 

“I can rig the hand controls…”

“Absolutely not! That car will bite your arms off and then you’re just a talking, annoying vegetable!” She yelled back, grabbed her helmet and balaclava to the soundtrack of a very grumpy mechanic wheeling himself away. As she tucked her hair inside, she looked at me one last time.

“If anything happens to me out there, you and Dashie are in charge of Star until I’m back.” She tossed me a thick roll of cash. 

“Ten thousand. Emergency fund for the three months I’ll be gone if I ‘die.’” she said with airquotes.

“McClaire…”

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on dying today.” She pulled the helmet on, gave a quick wave, and walked out to the waiting TVR. The engine roared to life. A moment later she was gone, disappearing toward pit lane.

“That was so cool!” Jr cheered, running back to me.

I put a finger to my lips and pointed at the crib. 

“You go watch. I’ve got babysitting duty. Listen to the guy in the wheelchair, okay?”

“Okay, Dad. Love you!”

He ran off. I settled back onto the couch and looked at the sleeping baby.

“Well, Stella Star… it’s just you and me now. Still miss locking me in that trunk?”

She didn’t answer. Just rolled over, peaceful and unaware of how completely my world had tilted on its axis.

I didn’t know how I was going to explain any of this to Abigail. Effectively being voluntold into becoming a surrogate uncle, or worse, a backup parent, should anything happen to McClaire. It was insane.

But no more insane than the existence of Stephanie McClaire herself.

If someone could be immortal… maybe someone really could be reborn?

The questions circled like vultures: What had Dashie seen with his own eyes? How had Star died the first time? What exactly was McClaire protecting me from?

I pushed them down. For now, I had a job to do.

I leaned back and closed my eyes, listening to the distant roar of qualifying engines and the soft breathing of the little girl who had once tried to kill me.

“What did I just get myself into?” I whispered.