“Why?”
Rourke looked around the garage.
“Because he left angry.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Rourke’s eyes moved toward the other bikers.
“Complicated.”
Caleb laughed bitterly.
“Adults always say complicated when they don't want to answer.”
The red-bearded biker muttered:
“He really is Ghost’s kid.”
Rourke almost smiled.
Then didn't.
“You want the short version?”
“Yes.”
“We accused your father of stealing.”
Caleb’s face hardened instantly.
“He wouldn't.”
“I know.”
“No, you don't.”
“I know now.”
“What does that mean?”
Rourke exhaled.
“Twenty years ago, money disappeared from the shop.”
“How much?”
“Thirty-eight thousand.”
Caleb laughed.
“You think my dad stole thirty-eight thousand dollars?”
“At the time, yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“We had reasons.”
“What reasons?”
“His access code opened the office the night it disappeared.”
“So?”
“Security camera showed his truck.”
“So?”
“He left town the next morning.”
Caleb stared at him.
Rourke continued.
“It looked bad.”
“You asked him?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He told us he didn't take it.”
“Then you should've believed him.”
Rourke absorbed that without defending himself.
“We should have.”
Caleb’s anger rose.
“You called the police?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“We handled things differently then.”
“What does that mean?”
Rourke looked uncomfortable.
Caleb understood.
“You threatened him.”
Rourke remained silent.
“You did.”
“We cornered him.”
“How many?”
“Four.”
“My dad alone?”
“Yes.”
Caleb’s jaw clenched.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing permanent.”
The phrase enraged Caleb.
“What does that mean?”
Rourke’s voice hardened.
“We scared him.”
“Did you hit him?”
Rourke looked away.
Caleb stepped closer.
“Did you hit my father?”
“Yes.”
The answer dropped into the garage like a tool hitting concrete.
Caleb stared.
Rourke continued.
“I hit him once.”
Caleb’s hands curled.
“Where?”
“Doesn't matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“Jaw.”
Caleb laughed once, breathless.
His father had broken his jaw years before Caleb was born.
Daniel always claimed it happened during a motorcycle accident.
Caleb suddenly remembered an old photograph.
His father younger.
Thin.
Bruise beneath one eye.
Jaw wired.
His mother once joked:
“Your dad thought he was tougher than gravity.”
Caleb had laughed.
Now the memory felt poisoned.
“You broke it.”
Rourke shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“That happened later.”
Caleb stared.
“Who?”
Rourke looked toward the shaved-head biker.
The man turned away.
Rourke said:
“A guy named Wade.”
“Is he here?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
Caleb felt cheated by the answer.
There should have been someone to blame.
Someone alive.
Someone he could look at.
Instead there was only Rourke.
Still standing in front of him.
Still admitting pieces.