Rebecca wiped her eyes angrily.
“So either you're lying, or she did.”
“I'm not lying.”
“You don't know me.”
“No.”
“Then why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn't.”
That answer surprised her.
Cole continued.
“You shouldn't trust me because I wear a patch your father wore.”
“You shouldn't trust anybody because they suddenly know something you want to hear.”
Rebecca stared.
Cole pointed toward the photograph.
“But I can prove I knew him.”
“How?”
“Club archives.”
“Old pictures.”
“Membership records.”
“His bike.”
Rebecca’s breath caught.
“His bike?”
Cole nodded toward the blue cruiser.
“Not that one.”
“His is stored.”
“Why?”
“Because nobody could bring themselves to sell it.”
Rebecca looked toward Mason.
“You kept my father's motorcycle?”
Mason nodded.
“For sixteen years.”
The number hit Rebecca.
Sixteen.
Her age.
Cole realized it too.
“When is your birthday?”
Rebecca frowned.
“October seventeenth.”
Cole closed his eyes.
Mason whispered, “Cole.”
“What?”
Cole looked at Rebecca again.
“Come by tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Daylight.”
“You can bring somebody.”
“Who?”
Cole did not have an answer.
Rebecca almost laughed.
Exactly.
She had nobody.
That was the other thing her coworkers did not know.
Rebecca was sixteen and technically living with an aunt.
Technically.
Her mother had died eight months earlier from an aneurysm so sudden that Rebecca left for school after arguing about dirty dishes and came home to police lights.
Her aunt Lisa took legal guardianship because somebody had to.
Lisa had two toddlers, one bedroom too few, a boyfriend who disliked teenagers, and no money.
Rebecca slept on a couch for three months.
Then Lisa’s boyfriend started complaining.
Rebecca found the diner job.
Night shift paid more.
Sam let her sleep in the tiny employee room between shifts occasionally.
Everyone pretended not to notice.
Rebecca still listed Lisa’s address on school forms.
But she had not actually slept there in eleven days.
Cole did not know any of that.
Yet.
Rebecca tucked the photograph into her pocket.
“I need to finish my shift.”
Cole nodded.
“Okay.”
She turned.
Then Cole said:
“Rebecca.”
She looked back.
He swallowed.
“Your father didn't leave because he was tired of you.”
Her eyes hardened.
“You don't know that.”
“Yes.”
“I do.”
“How?”
Cole looked toward the old photograph.
“Because he talked about you every damn day.”
Rebecca stood motionless.
Then walked inside without answering.
At 6:05 a.m., Rebecca’s shift ended.
The motorcycles were gone.
She told herself she was relieved.
She cleaned the coffee machine, changed out of her stained apron, put the baseball bat back beneath the counter, and carried her backpack toward the employee room.
Sam Dorsey was seventy-one and owned the diner mostly because he refused to retire.
He came through the kitchen holding an invoice.
“You sleeping here again?”
Rebecca stiffened.
“I wasn't.”
Sam gave her a look.
“You're a terrible liar.”
Rebecca looked away.
“Your aunt know?”
“Yeah.”
Another lie.
Sam sighed.
He was not good at emotional conversations.
That was probably why Rebecca liked him.
“You can use the room until Friday.”
“Why Friday?”
“Health inspector.”
Rebecca nodded.