“Sweetheart, we can sit somewhere else.”
Lucy looked toward the white table.
Several colorful paper cranes lay scattered beside small squares of red, yellow, blue, and green paper.
She picked up a yellow square.
Then stared at Hammer.
“Can you make a bird?”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
“A good one?”
Hammer's eyes filled.
“I can try.”
The little girl placed the paper in front of him.
Then she took one careful step backward.
Hammer slowly folded the paper.
No sudden movements.
No reaching toward her.
No attempt to explain away her fear.
He folded one corner.
Then another.
Lucy watched.
The hospital courtyard became quiet.
A volunteer who had approached to intervene lowered her hands. Two parents standing beside the garden path stopped whispering. Even the older bikers remained still, watching their enormous president perform the delicate task of folding a small paper crane.
When Hammer finished, he placed it on the table.
Lucy studied it.
Then looked toward his tattooed hand.
“It's yellow.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
“Not black.”
“No.”
She reached toward the little bird.
Then hesitated.
Hammer gently moved his hand away so she could take it without touching him.
Lucy picked it up.
For a moment, the smallest smile crossed her face.
Then she whispered, “Mama used to make these.”
Mara covered her mouth.
Hammer looked toward her.
For a few seconds, the woman couldn't speak.
Then she whispered, “Her mother is in rehabilitation. She's been there since the accident.”
Hammer's expression changed.
The accident.
The word was familiar.
Too familiar.
He had heard about the woman injured in Mercy Ridge's parking garage months earlier. A hospital employee named Emma Bennett had been attacked while carrying documents related to a charitable construction project. Her daughter witnessed part of the encounter, and the woman suffered a serious head injury during the struggle.
The investigation remained open.
No suspect had been publicly identified.
But Hammer knew something about that night.
Something he hadn't told the police.
And the child standing before him was now covering his tattoos with mud because she believed every raven belonged to the man who hurt her mother.
Hammer's throat tightened.
He looked toward the older bikers.
For a moment, his eyes settled on a gray-bearded man standing near the motorcycles.
Raymond Voss.
Everyone in the club called him Rook.