Chapter 2
I stared at Hank Mercer like he had spoken a language I almost remembered.
“My father?”
Hank nodded.
“Eli Cole.”
My chest tightened so hard I could barely breathe.
No one said Dad’s name anymore.
Not in my house.
Not after my stepfather, Rick, moved in.
Not after my mother got sick and grief became something we swallowed quietly because hospital bills were louder.
Sheriff Briggs pulled me away from the cruiser.
“Enough drama,” he snapped.
Then the first line of bikers stepped off their motorcycles.
They did not rush.
They did not shout.
They just stood.
Leather vests.
Gray beards.
Women with hard eyes.
Young riders.
Old riders.
A wall of people who looked at Sheriff Briggs like he had just made a terrible mistake.
A woman with silver hair walked forward.
“Sheriff,” she said. “Take the cuffs off the boy.”
He laughed nervously.
“Ma’am, this is police business.”
She lifted her phone.
“Then you won’t mind that I sent the security footage to state police.”
Tyler’s face changed.
The woman pointed to the gas station camera.
“And to three news stations.”
Sheriff Briggs looked up.
For the first time, he seemed to notice the red blinking light above the pump.
Hank wiped blood from his mouth.
“The kid defended me after your son and his friends attacked me.”
“That’s not what happened,” Tyler shouted.
The silver-haired woman turned.
“Then you’ll love the video.”
The sheriff uncuffed me.
My wrists burned.
I bent and picked up my mother’s medicine with shaking hands.
The bottle was cracked but not broken.
Thank God.
Hank stepped closer.
“You hurt?”
“No.”
That was a lie.
He knew it.
“You fight like your father.”
I looked at him.
“You knew him?”
Hank’s face softened.
“Knew him? Kid, Eli Cole dragged me out of a burning wreck in Afghanistan. Then he came home and disappeared from us like he thought nobody would notice.”
My throat closed.
“My dad died in a warehouse fire.”
Hank went still.
“That’s what they told you?”
The bikers behind him quieted.
The gas station lights buzzed overhead.
I looked at him.
“What do you mean?”
Before he could answer, my phone rang.
Home.
I answered fast.
“Mom?”
Rick’s voice came through.
“Where the hell are you?”
My stomach tightened.
“I’m coming.”
“You better. Your mother’s asking for medicine, and I’m tired of hearing it.”
Hank’s eyes sharpened.
I turned away, but Rick kept going.
“And if you got yourself arrested again, don’t bother coming back.”
“I wasn’t arrested.”
“You will be once Briggs is done with you.”
I froze.
Hank heard that too.
“How do you know Sheriff Briggs is here?”
Silence.
Then Rick hung up.
Hank looked at the sheriff.
The sheriff looked away.
Something ugly passed between them.
“You know my stepfather?” I asked.
Nobody answered.
That was answer enough.
Hank took my grocery bag from the ground and handed it to me.
“Take me to your mother.”
“I don’t need help.”
“You do.”
“I said I don’t.”
He leaned closer.
His voice was low.
“Your father said the same thing three weeks before he vanished.”
Vanished.
Not died.
Vanished.
The word ripped through me.
I stepped back.
“My father is dead.”
Hank’s eyes filled with something like grief.
“I hope that’s not true.”
The motorcycles followed us home.
Not all 1,500.
But enough.
Hank rode behind me in a black truck because his bike was damaged.
I sat beside him, clutching the medicine.
My mind ran in circles.
Dad.
Afghanistan.
Warehouse fire.
Rick knowing the sheriff was there.
My mother had never talked about the night Dad died.
She only said, “Some grief is too big to reopen.”
When we reached my street, I saw Rick on the porch.
He was in his stained work shirt, arms crossed.
The second he saw the bikers, his face went pale.
Hank got out first.
Rick looked at him and whispered, “No.”
Hank smiled without warmth.
“Hello, Richard.”
I stared between them.
“You know each other.”
Rick backed toward the door.
“Brandon, get inside.”
I did not move.
Hank’s voice turned cold.
“Where’s Maya?”
My mother’s name.
Rick’s jaw tightened.
“None of your business.”
Hank stepped onto the porch.
“She became my business the day Eli trusted me with his family.”
Rick reached for the door.
I pushed past him.
“Mom?”
She was on the couch.
Too pale.
Too thin.
Blanket pulled to her chin.
Her eyes opened when she saw me.
Then she saw Hank.
The medicine slipped from my hand.
My mother began to cry.
“Hank,” she whispered.
He knelt beside her.
“Maya.”
Rick shouted from the doorway, “Get out of my house.”
My mother looked at me.
Her voice broke.
“Brandon, baby, there’s something I should have told you years ago.”
Rick lunged toward her.
Two bikers blocked him.
Mom grabbed my hand.
“Your father didn’t die in that fire.”
May you like
The room tilted.
“He was taken.”
