“What?”
Caleb asked.
Harold opened the cloth.
A motorcycle badge.
Old.
Scratched.
Silver wings around a small shield.
Caleb stared.
“Where did you get that?”
“Storage locker tied to Ridgeway.”
Caleb picked it up.
The badge looked familiar.
Too familiar.
On the back were initials.
J.M.
Caleb stopped breathing.
Harold watched.
“You recognize it.”
Caleb turned the badge over.
Again.
J.M.
His father’s initials.
James Mercer.
Caleb had not spoken the name aloud in years.
“My dad had one like this.”
Harold sat.
“Exactly like it?”
“Custom badge.”
“Club piece.”
“Not official Harley hardware.”
He rubbed dirt from the edge.
“My father disappeared when I was twelve.”
Harold looked surprised.
“You told police?”
“My mother did.”
“Truck found near Phoenix.”
“No body.”
“Everyone assumed he left.”
Caleb stared at the badge.
Memories he had packed away opened abruptly.
James Mercer smelled of cigarettes and engine grease.
Loud laugh.
Unreliable promises.
Brilliant mechanic.
Bad husband.
Sometimes loving father.
Sometimes absent for days.
Caleb spent adolescence hating him for leaving.
Then adulthood pretending he no longer cared.
“How did Ridgeway get this?”
Harold shook his head.
“I don't know.”
“Why bring it to me?”
“Detective Cole said personal property not needed as evidence could eventually be returned.”
“But how did they connect it?”
“There was an old ledger.”
Caleb looked up.
“Your ledger?”
“Different one.”
“Parts and motorcycles dating back decades.”
“One entry mentioned James Mercer.”
Caleb felt the garage tilt.
“What entry?”
Harold removed a photocopy.
Caleb read.
MERCER – 1989 FXR – HOLD / DISASSEMBLE
Date.
Twenty-nine years earlier.
Three days after his father disappeared.
Caleb sat hard on the stool.
Harold continued carefully.
“Police reopened the missing-person case.”
Caleb looked at him.
“What did they find?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because there was another notation.”
Harold pointed lower.
FRAME TO KNOX PROPERTY
Caleb stared.
Knox.
The family behind Ridgeway Customs.
Harold continued.
“Tyler’s grandfather owned the original shop.”
Caleb felt suddenly cold.
“You think my father’s disappearance connects to Ridgeway?”
“I think police think it might.”
Caleb stood.
Too fast again.
His legs weakened.
Harold grabbed his arm.
Caleb pulled away.
“I’m fine.”
He was not.
For months, Caleb had fought cancer.
A disease inside his own body.
Now the past had returned carrying a name he thought belonged only to childhood.
James Mercer.
His father had not simply vanished into some unknown life.
His motorcycle went through Ridgeway.
Three days after he disappeared.
Caleb looked toward his Harley.
For the first time, motorcycles did not feel like freedom.
They felt like evidence.
Detective Cole visited that evening.
Mara sat beside Caleb.
Noah slept upstairs.
Sarah placed a folder on the table.