Aaron’s voice broke.
“The other one stayed.”
The room blurred.
Wade wiped his face with the heel of his free hand.
Aaron’s final words came softer.
“She’ll act brave.”
“Don’t believe her.”
“She hates grape medicine.”
“She sleeps with the hallway light on.”
“She says she hates pancakes but only because I burn them.”
“And Bear…”
A long pause.
“Tell her every day that I loved her.”
“Even when she gets tired of hearing it.”
“Especially then.”
Static filled the phone.
Then Aaron whispered:
“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.”
The recording ended.
Nobody moved.
Lily looked at Wade.
Her face was pale.
Confused.
She was eight years old.
Old enough to understand certain words.
Young enough to hope adults meant something else.
“Why did Dad say that?”
Wade tried to speak.
Nothing came.
The nurse stepped forward, crying silently now.
Before she could say anything, Lily smiled through her tears.
“See?”
Everyone looked at her.
She squeezed Wade’s fingers.
“Daddy knew you’d come.”
Wade bowed his head.
The toy handcuff rattled softly against the bed rail.
He could not tell her yet.
Not while she was looking at him like that.
Not while the last thing her father had given her was certainty.
Wade covered her small hand with his enormous one.
“I’m here.”
Lily’s eyelids fluttered.
“You promise?”
Wade swallowed.
“I promise.”
She relaxed.
Five minutes later she was asleep.
Still handcuffed to him.
The security officer quietly left the room.
The nurse stayed.
Wade remained exactly where he was.
Because Aaron Hart had been right about one thing.
Wade knew how to run.
He had spent twelve years perfecting it.
And somewhere, even from beyond death, his oldest friend had just closed the door.
Three hours earlier, Wade Mercer had been beneath a motorcycle when Aaron called.
The Steel Saints clubhouse sat on the industrial edge of Dayton in a converted machine shop that smelled permanently of gasoline, welding smoke, leather, and old coffee.
Wade owned the repair garage attached to it.
People assumed the Steel Saints Motorcycle Club owned the garage.
It did not.
Wade did.
The distinction mattered to banks, insurance companies, and occasionally police.
At fifty-four, Wade had been around motorcycles for thirty-eight years and around the Steel Saints for twenty-nine.
He was not club president.
Had never wanted to be.
He was the man presidents called when engines failed, tempers got stupid, or somebody needed a truck at three in the morning without questions asked until daylight.
Most people knew him as Bear.
His legal name appeared on tax documents and medical bills.
Everybody else used Bear.
That evening he had been replacing a clutch assembly on a black touring bike when his phone rang across the workbench.
He ignored it.
The phone stopped.
Rang again.
He slid out from beneath the bike.
Aaron.
Wade stared at the name.
They had spoken four days earlier.
Normal conversation.
Mostly.
Aaron complaining about hospital coffee.
Wade complaining that Aaron only called when he wanted something.
Aaron replying:
“That’s because talking to you recreationally is exhausting.”
Normal.
Wade answered.
“What broke?”
Aaron’s breathing came fast through the phone.
“Need you at Mercy Children’s.”
Wade sat up.
“What happened?”
“Lily’s fine.”
“That sentence means she isn’t fine.”
“She had another rhythm episode.”
“She’s stable.”
“They’re keeping her overnight.”
Wade wiped grease from his hand.
“You there?”
“For another twenty minutes.”
Wade frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“I have to run home.”
“In this storm?”
“I forgot Patches.”
Wade stared at the phone.