And the thing she'd chosen to leave as a symbol of home.
The grandmother asked whether I wanted to visit.
I nodded.
But not that night.
I wasn't ready.
I needed to understand what happened to her.
Not just how she died.
How she lived.
And how I had allowed nine years to pass without knowing any of it.
The following morning, I left New Mexico.
My granddaughter stood beside the old pickup wearing her pink raincoat.
She waved until I reached the end of the road.
I looked in my mirror.
The little figure grew smaller.
Then disappeared around the bend.
I had spent nine years riding away from the memory of my daughter.
Now I was riding toward the responsibility of becoming her father in the only way I had left.
By telling the truth about what I'd done.
Back in Missouri, the clubhouse looked smaller than I remembered.
The brick building stood beside an old repair shop.
Two motorcycles were parked near the entrance.
The flag above the door moved in the wind.
And the familiar club emblem had been painted onto a weathered wooden sign.
I'd spent thousands of hours there.
Fundraisers.
Meetings.
Birthday parties.
Memorial gatherings.
And late nights discussing everything from broken motorcycles to family troubles.
For years, I'd believed the building represented loyalty.
Now I wasn't sure what we'd actually been loyal to.
My old friend met me outside.
He looked tired.
His gray mustache had grown longer.
And his hands trembled slightly when he held his coffee.
He nodded toward the building.
"Ready?"
I looked at the patch over my heart.
Then answered.
"Yeah."
We went inside.
The current club president was the same man who'd served as treasurer when my daughter discovered the financial discrepancies.
He had been elected president after his predecessor retired.
He was sixty-five now.
Still broad-shouldered.
Still charming.
Still capable of making everyone in a room feel that he was speaking directly to them.
When he saw me, he smiled.
"Look who's back from his desert vacation."
I didn't smile.
He noticed.
His expression changed.
"Everything all right?"
I placed the financial folder on the table.
"We need to talk about the children's fund."
For a moment, he remained still.
Then he laughed.
"Good Lord. That was nine years ago."
I nodded.
"Yes."
He looked toward my friend.
Then back at me.
"What brought this up?"
I sat.
"My daughter."
His expression tightened.
He glanced toward the patch.