Chapter 1
“Could we have your leftovers?”
The boy’s voice was so small I almost missed it beneath the rain hitting the diner windows.
But Victor “Grim” Hayes heard him.
Everyone did.
The whole room went still.
Forks stopped halfway to mouths.
The jukebox kept playing low in the corner, but even that seemed afraid to be too loud.
I stood behind the counter with a coffee pot in my hand, frozen in place.
The boy couldn’t have been more than twelve.
His hoodie was soaked through.
His jeans clung to his thin legs.
His shoes were torn so badly I could see one wet sock through the side.
Behind him, near the entrance, stood a little girl about six years old.
She was shivering hard.
Her hair stuck to her cheeks.
She held a plastic grocery bag against her chest like it was the only thing she owned.
And maybe it was.
The boy had walked straight toward the largest table in the diner.
Straight toward Victor Hayes.
People in town called him Grim because of the skull tattoo on his neck and because almost nobody had ever seen him smile.
He was the president of the local motorcycle club.
Big man.
Gray beard.
Leather vest.
Hands like bricks.
Half the people in Cactus Ridge crossed the street when they saw him coming.
The other half pretended not to see him at all.
That night, he sat in booth six with five bikers around him, plates full of steak, eggs, fries, and biscuits.
The boy stood beside him, shaking from cold and fear.
But he didn’t run.
“Sir,” the boy said, swallowing hard. “If you’re done, could me and my sister have what’s left?”
One of the younger bikers looked up sharply.
Another man near the window muttered, “Kid, move along.”
The boy flinched.
His sister hugged the plastic bag tighter.
Victor slowly set down his fork.
I held my breath.
I had seen grown men apologize to Victor for breathing too loudly.
This boy had just asked him for scraps.
Victor turned his head and looked at the child.
“Leftovers?” he asked.
The boy nodded once.
“We’re not picky.”
My throat tightened.
Victor’s face didn’t change.
“Leftovers are for dogs.”
The boy’s cheeks went red.
“I’m sorry.”
He turned quickly, reaching for his sister.
Then Victor’s hand shot out.
Not rough.
Just fast.
He caught the boy gently by the sleeve.
The entire diner tensed.
Victor leaned back and pointed to the empty chair beside him.
“Pull up a chair and eat with us like family.”
Nobody moved.
The boy stared at him.
His sister stared too.
Victor looked at me.
“Mara.”
My name in his voice snapped me awake.
“Yes?”
“Two hot chocolates. Two plates. Biggest portions you’ve got.”
I blinked.
“Coming right up.”
His eyes went back to the boy.
“What’s your name?”
The boy hesitated.
“Eli.”
“And the little one?”
“My sister. Rosie.”
Victor’s voice softened.
“Rosie, you hungry?”
The little girl nodded.
Tears slipped down her face before she could stop them.
Victor looked around the table.
Every biker moved at once.
One pulled off his dry flannel jacket and wrapped it around Rosie’s shoulders.
Another slid his untouched biscuit plate toward Eli.
A third stood and dragged two chairs over.
The diner stayed silent.
Not because people were scared now.
Because something had changed.
Eli sat like he expected someone to shout at him for it.
Rosie climbed onto the chair beside him, still clutching the plastic bag.
I brought the hot chocolate.
Her tiny hands shook as she reached for it.
“Careful, baby,” I whispered. “It’s hot.”
She looked at me with huge eyes.
“Can I drink all of it?”
That broke something in me.
“Yes,” I said. “Every drop.”
Victor watched the children eat.
He didn’t touch his own food.
His jaw tightened every time Eli looked over his shoulder at the door.
Like he expected someone to come in and drag them away.
Finally Victor asked, “Where are your parents?”
Eli froze.
Rosie stopped chewing.
I saw it.
Fear.
Real fear.
Not embarrassment.
Not sadness.
Fear.
Eli whispered, “Our mom is gone.”
Victor’s face became stone.
“And your dad?”
Eli shook his head.
“We don’t have one.”
Rosie suddenly cried, “Yes, we do.”
Eli turned white.
“Rosie, don’t.”
She reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a wet photograph.
She held it toward Victor.
“Our daddy rides a motorcycle too.”
Victor took the photo.
The moment he saw it, all color left his face.
The men at his table leaned closer.
Victor’s hand trembled.
For the first time in all the years I had worked at that diner, I saw Grim Hayes look afraid.
He looked at Eli.
Then at Rosie.
Then back at the photo.
“Where did you get this?”
Eli’s voice shook.
“Mom said if anything happened, find the man in the picture.”
Victor turned the photo toward me.
It was younger Victor, standing beside a woman with dark hair.
Between them was a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket.
May you like
On the back, written in faded ink, were five words.
Victor, this is your son.
