The Imposter's Game

Saturday mornings were sacred, spent in my garage, polishing my cherished cherry red '69 Camaro.

My wife, Emily, had just confirmed her performance check at Sam's Autoworks before our road trip.

Life was good, almost perfect.

Then the phone rang.

Detective Rourke.

My Camaro was involved in a fatal hit-and-run, he said.

Impossible!

It was supposed to be safely at Sam's.

But according to the police, it never arrived.

At the scene, my world crumbled.

My beautiful muscle car was a twisted wreck.

Three body bags lay on the asphalt, one terribly small.