Anna shut her eyes.
“Of course.”
Russell understood the bitterness.
“He wrote it for me.”
“That’s helpful.”
“It talks about you.”
“Even better.”
Russell waited.
Then:
“I think you should read it.”
Anna almost refused.
Pride.
Anger.
Fear.
Then Owen entered the kitchen wearing pajamas.
He looked toward her.
“Bear?”
Russell heard.
Anna covered the phone.
“Go brush your teeth.”
“I already did.”
“You’re lying.”
“Yes.”
“Go.”
Owen left slowly.
Anna returned to the call.
“I’ll meet you somewhere public.”
“Fine.”
“Without Owen.”
“Fine.”
“And you bring the letter.”
“Yes.”
The Crossroads Diner opened at six.
They met at eight thirty.
Russell chose a booth near the front window.
No vest.
No club colors.
Just a black work shirt and jeans.
Anna noticed.
She hated that she noticed.
He stood when she approached.
She sat before he could pull the chair.
Russell placed the envelope on the table.
Anna stared.
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
“It was addressed to you.”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
Russell pushed it toward her.
“Read.”
She did.
He watched her face.
Anger first.
Then surprise.
Then something softer.
Then tears.
At the line:
Metal is not memory.
Anna covered her mouth.
Russell looked toward the window.
He gave her privacy without leaving.
She read all three pages.
Then started again.
When she finished, she folded them carefully.
“He knew.”
Russell looked toward her.
“He knew I would be angry.”
“Yes.”
“Did you know about the letter?”
“No.”
“You never removed that seat in eight years?”
“No.”
“You expect me to believe a mechanic never removed a motorcycle seat?”
Russell sighed.
“It didn’t need work there.”
“You could have checked.”
“I could have done a lot.”
Fair.
Anna looked toward the envelope.
“Why didn’t he tell me about the bike?”
Russell hesitated.
“I can guess.”
“I don’t want guesses.”
“Then I don’t know.”
She looked angry again.
Russell continued:
“But I know he bought that bike before he met you.”
“He didn’t buy it.”
“What?”
“He built most of it.”
Anna stared.
Russell looked toward his coffee.
“Frame came from a wreck.”
“Engine came from a police auction.”
“Front end from a bike I totaled.”
“Tank from a junkyard.”
“Caleb painted it.”
“Badly the first time.”
“What color?”
“Yellow.”
Anna almost laughed.
The sound surprised her.
Russell smiled faintly.
“Looked like mustard.”
“He refused to admit it.”
“Eventually went burgundy.”
Anna looked toward the letter.
“He told me he sold his motorcycle.”
“He did.”
Russell’s face became serious.
“The one he rode.”
“What’s the difference?”