“Thanks.”
Sam noticed the photograph sticking from her pocket.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Terrible liar.”
“You mentioned that.”
He grunted.
Rebecca went into the employee room.
It contained a folding cot, a metal locker, and a fan that clicked every twenty seconds.
She lay down fully dressed.
She expected exhaustion to knock her unconscious.
Instead she stared at the ceiling.
Her father had not left.
Maybe.
Her father had died.
Maybe.
Her father had belonged to a motorcycle club.
Definitely.
Her mother had lied.
Probably.
Rebecca pulled out the photograph.
She studied Evan’s face.
Same eyes.
She had been told that before.
Her mother said it once during an argument.
“You have his eyes when you're angry.”
Rebecca had asked what that meant.
Her mother refused to explain.
Now she knew.
At 7:12, someone knocked lightly on the diner’s rear door.
Rebecca ignored it.
Another knock.
Sam shouted from the kitchen:
“Rebecca!”
She groaned.
“What?”
“You have company.”
Rebecca sat up.
Cole stood outside.
No motorcycle.
No leather vest.
He wore jeans, boots, and a dark flannel shirt.
That somehow made him more intimidating because he looked ordinary.
He held a cardboard box.
Rebecca opened the rear door but kept the chain latched.
“What?”
Cole raised the box.
“Proof.”
She stared.
“You said tomorrow.”
“It is tomorrow.”
“That's annoying.”
“I've been told.”
“What is that?”
Cole looked toward the chain.
“You want me to pass things through three inches?”
“Yes.”
He nodded.
“Fair.”
Cole opened the box on the ground.
Then lifted the first item.
A photograph.
He slid it through the gap.
Rebecca took it.
Evan stood beside a motorcycle.
Younger than in her photograph.
Cole stood beside him, black beard instead of gray.
Another biker crouched in front.
On the back:
IRON VALLEY CHARITY RUN — 2008.
Rebecca looked up.
Cole handed her another.
Evan asleep on a couch with marker drawings on his face.
Another.
Evan holding a fishing rod.
Another.
Evan sitting beside a woman.
Rebecca froze.
Her mother.
Much younger.
Laughing.
Rebecca had almost forgotten her mother could look like that.
On the back:
Evan + Claire. July 2009.
Rebecca’s hands began trembling.
Cole passed another photograph.
Claire holding newborn Rebecca.
Evan beside the hospital bed.
He looked terrified.
Happy.
Alive.
Rebecca pressed the photo to her chest.
“My mom said he never came to the hospital.”
Cole’s expression darkened.
“He was there the entire night.”
“She said she did it alone.”
“I drove him.”
Rebecca opened the chain.
Cole did not move.
She stepped outside.
“Why would she lie?”
“I don't know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I don't.”
Rebecca looked through the box.
There were dozens of photographs.
Birthday.
Christmas.