Harris, the man I’ve loved like a second father, takes a final look at the house and mounts his bike, riding off with my ability to trust somebody ever again. And all I can do is wonder, what did I do wrong?

I sit up with a jolt, my eyes wide as the images from my memories freeze into my mind like slides from a fucked up family holiday. The details, the things I chose not to see before, smack me about the head and berate me for being so blind all these years.

The moaning after the first shot; I always thought it was my mother, her voice distorted with grief, but when I push that preconception aside and unbox the memory, it was my father. Which means Mom died first. Hearing Harris asking my father what he’d done only points to the fact it was probably an accident.

But that second shot. It had to have been done on purpose—anger, revenge, betrayal . . . heartbreak.

And when Harris had found me on the landing, I’d chosen only to remember his face, his eyes as he spoke to me. But there was more. If I widen the lens, the evidence was all over his cheeks, his neck, and his clothing. He wore blood like a shower of rain, staining him in tiny droplets of guilt. If he’s the last man standing, he clearly shot my father, but how would he get covered in that much blood if he faced my dad? He couldn’t—surely. Does that mean he was behind my mom when my father shot her. What the fuck?

My chest heaves as the knots unravel. The picture grows clearer. All these years I chose to believe so single-mindedly that he shot both of them, that it was because he was angry with both of them. But he wasn’t, was he? He loved my mother, and when I think back on it, perhaps he loved her a little too much. Eyes lingering a little too long, hands touching a little too much, my father lowering his voice a little too often when he addressed my uncle.

Harris was in love with my mom. Harris probably wanted my mom. Which explains the argument, but not the outcome. What were they talking about? Was it just the fact my uncle had such strong feelings for Mom? Did she reciprocate his feelings? Did Harris come to take her away from us? Is that why he got into a fight with Dad?

Thinking over things in a new light has opened my eyes to so much I missed before, but seeing these new facts also raises questions, leading me right back to square one.

I need to find somebody who can tell me why my parents died, and although Eddie knows what happened, Bronx is right—I’m probably safer trying to get a bunch of bikers to share what they’ve heard on the grapevine.

I need to find Bronx and apologize. I need to track him down and get him to talk to his friends at the Fallen Saints, which means a trip to an old warehouse two hours drive from here to see a man about a dog—a lying dog.

RECALL

Bronx

“You best be gettin’ your ass back here, fucker, because I’ve got a few things you need to clear up.” King’s tone is low and level, but there’s no missing the hidden threat in it.

“Like what?”

“Like a problem at my front gate. A problem who won’t take no for an answer.”

Shit. There’s only one person I’ve told about my connection to the Saints. “Ryan?”

“You bet your ass that’s her name. Told her she’s not welcome, and now the bitch has damn near chained herself to the gate until she sees you. What the fuck is she doing here, Bronx?”

I cringe, realizing I probably should have answered the messages she’s been sending through. “I might have told her a thing or two.”

“I’m goin’ to pretend you didn’t say that, step my ass over to my liquor cabinet, and try to find some patience in a bottle of Jack. You have an hour to get yourself here before I fuckin’ set the whores on to her. Bet they’d have a few things they’d like to teach your girl about territory.”

“Yeah, all right, I get you. Just settle down.” The guy’s starting to sound like his predecessor, Apex.

The line goes dead with a click, and I draw in a few calming breaths. One, I probably shouldn’t have told King to settle down, and two, what the fuck, Ryan? Guess the woman had a change of heart after ushering me out of the house with a gun. Figures . . . women. I pocket my phone and rub a hand over my face, mentally wiping away any traces of guilt I might have had. Now’s not the time to be giving it all away—I’ve already said more than enough to Ryan. Evidently.

“How’s it going?” I ask, walking through the back door of the practice to where I left Gunter sitting. I should have headed straight to a motel, found somewhere to stay the night, but I knew there’d be no rest if I didn’t check in on Tommy first. The kid’s kind of hard to forget about when his blood is still under my nails and embedded in the creases of my skin. Plus, I still had a small problem of a pellet that needed removing.

“Doc thinks he might pull through. Can’t be a hundred until tomorrow, though.”

“I need to keep goin’. Send me a message when you get him home. Let me know how it goes, yeah?”

The big guy nods, assessing me. “Who was that you were talking to? Eddie?”

I shake my head. “Old girlfriend. In a spot of trouble and needs a hand gettin’ home.” At least it was only partially a lie.

Gunter nods again, tapping the heel of his boot on the linoleum floor. “You did a good thing tonight.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“He is.” The skinhead fiddles with the buckles on his suspenders where they hang slack at his hips. “Never was cut out for this shit.”

The doc shows his face around a doorframe, and tips his head toward the room behind him. “He’s stable, for now. We’ll let him rest for a bit, make sure he doesn’t go downhill again before you take him home.”

Gunter nods and looks over to me as he stands. “You want to come see him?”

I shake my head and step toward the door. “Nah, man. You two have some time alone. I need to hit the road.” I hesitate a second before heading for the front door to where my bike’s parked. My nature is to give somebody comfort, pat them on the shoulder or the like, but with Gunter I can’t quite bring myself to do it. He’s a guy in pain, unsure if his brother’s going to survive the night, but he’s still a narrow-minded Nazi. There’s only so much sympathy I can spare the guy.

Being so late, the roads are relatively clear, and I make the trip to Lincoln in good time, thanks to riding a few extra miles over the limit. Bringing my Kawasaki to an idle, I roll past Ryan’s car parked out on the road and coast the last few yards to the gate to find Dog and one of the other prospects standing in front of the gate. Dog lifts his head to acknowledge me as I come to a stop before them, my headlight illuminating Ryan in their custody as she stands and then just as quickly sags into the gate in defeat.

She’s obviously unsure if it’s right to approach me, and in all truth, she’s not half wrong. I’m pretty fucking pissed at the bitch, almost as much as I’m relieved she’s come to her senses.

“Take it she’s right?” Dog calls out. “You know who she is?”

I lock my gaze on her as she stands behind him, flanked by the younger prospect. Her eyes are downcast, her hands fidgeting wildly with the hem of her shirt. “Yeah, I know who she is.”

“Said she wanted to talk to Pres. Pretty fuckin’ bold request.”

Fucking suicidal with some clubs. She’s lucky she’s standing on King’s doorstep. A few other chapters wouldn’t be quite so kind to a woman demanding a word with the boss and then refusing to leave.

The prospect signals for the gate to be opened, and Ryan jumps when it starts rolling on its tracks. I ride past the three of them, taking my bike to the overhang I park under when I visit. By the time I dismount and remove my helmet, the three of them are halfway across the yard to the clubhouse.