Chapter 6
I stopped breathing.
The room around me blurred.
Ghost died because he chose wrong.
Not Dad.
Ghost.
Whoever threw that brick knew his road name.
Knew what he meant to these men.
Knew exactly how to hurt me.
Razor took the note gently from my hand.
“I need you to sit down.”
“No.”
“Emily—”
“No.”
My voice rose.
“I have been told to sit down, calm down, wait outside, trust adults, sign here, leave there, be grateful, be quiet. No.”
The room froze.
Even Teresa lowered the bat.
“I want to know who killed my father.”
Razor’s jaw worked.
“So do I.”
“Then don’t put me in a corner while you do it.”
Maria came forward.
“No one is putting you in a corner. But you are sixteen.”
“I was sixteen behind a gas station too.”
That landed.
Hard.
Maria closed her eyes.
“I know.”
Detective Alvarez arrived twenty minutes later.
She bagged the brick.
Photographed the broken window.
Read the note.
Her face became stone.
“This is escalation.”
Denise, who had come with her, nodded.
“Bell is either panicking or answering to someone.”
Razor looked at her.
“Someone above him?”
“Possibly.”
Caruso sank into a chair.
“Ghost said accounts tied to the club charity.”
Razor’s eyes darkened.
“Our charity fund was audited after his death.”
“By who?” Denise asked.
Razor went still.
“Harold Bell.”
Silence.
Then Caruso whispered, “Son of a…”
Denise opened her laptop on Teresa’s kitchen table.
Alvarez pulled records.
Maria made coffee nobody drank.
I sat with Dad’s jacket around my shoulders, staring at the note inside an evidence bag.
By sunrise, they had found the first thread.
After Dad died, three checks from the club charity were rerouted through a vendor called Golden State Outreach.
The vendor did not exist.
Its registered agent was Harold Bell.
But the approval signatures came from inside the club.
Razor went quiet.
Very quiet.
Caruso looked sick.
“Who had access?”
Razor answered without looking up.
“Officers. Treasurer. President.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Caruso?”
“Years ago, yes. Not then.”
Denise asked, “Who was treasurer when Ghost died?”
Razor’s mouth tightened.
“Victor Hale.”
Caruso’s face changed.
“Hale’s dead.”
“Heart attack last year.”
“Convenient,” Denise said.
Razor stared at the table.
“He had a son.”
I looked up.
“Who?”
“Derek Hale. Runs parts through the club garage. He was close to Bell.”
My stomach twisted.
“Did he know my dad?”
Razor nodded.
“Everyone knew Ghost.”
I hated that answer.
It meant anyone could have betrayed him.
By late morning, Razor took me to the clubhouse.
Maria argued.
Detective Alvarez argued.
I argued too, but for the opposite reason.
If the danger came from inside the club, I wanted to see their faces when they looked at me.
The clubhouse sat behind a repair garage, surrounded by a high fence and old trees.
Dozens of bikers waited outside.
Word had spread.
Ghost had a daughter.
Ghost left proof.
Ghost might have been murdered.
When I stepped out of the truck wearing his jacket, the yard went silent.
Men took off hats.
Some looked away.
Some cried.
One by one, they touched two fingers to their patches.
Respect.
Shame.
Both.
Inside, Razor called church.
That was what they called their private meeting.
I was not supposed to be allowed in.
Razor looked at the officers.
“She stays.”
A large man with a scar across his chin objected.
“Club business.”
Razor turned on him.
“Her father died for club business.”
Nobody argued after that.
We sat around a long table.
I kept my back straight.
Razor placed Dad’s flash drive in the center.
Denise played the files on a projector.
Bank transfers.
Scanned checks.
Emails.
Names.
Harold Bell.
Victor Hale.
Derek Hale.
And one more.
The scarred man across the table went pale.
His name patch read Bishop.
Razor saw it.
So did I.
Bishop stood too fast.
“This is fake.”
Denise clicked to the next file.
A recording played.
Dad’s voice.
“I know it was you, Bishop. Bell doesn’t move without protection.”
Bishop’s chair hit the floor.
Razor rose.
Caruso whispered, “No.”
Bishop backed toward the door.
“I didn’t kill him.”
Nobody had accused him yet.
That was how we knew.
Two bikers blocked the exit.
Bishop reached under his vest.
Razor moved.
Fast.
He slammed Bishop’s arm against the wall before anything came out.
A small pistol clattered to the floor.
I screamed.
Detective Alvarez, waiting outside, burst in with officers.
Bishop fought until three men held him down.
As they cuffed him, he looked at me.
His face twisted with hatred.
“Your father should’ve kept his mouth shut.”
The room went ice cold.
Razor bent close to him.
“What did you do?”
May you like
Bishop laughed.
“Ask Bell about Bakersfield.”
