Now he was beginning to understand that loyalty to an oath could require disagreeing with the man who supervised him.
And he was terrified of the consequences.
Karen reached her father's grave shortly before sunset.
She didn't ride the Ducati there.
A trusted friend transported her while arrangements were made to preserve the motorcycle's condition and ensure that no evidence connected with the attempted seizure was lost.
The bike was later secured at a location Karen chose, with documentation of its condition and the people who handled it.
For the moment, she wanted to be alone.
Gabriel Reyes was buried beneath an old oak tree at Saint Andrew's Memorial Cemetery, where the headstones faced a small hillside covered in late-summer grass.
The inscription was simple.
GABRIEL ANTHONY REYES
BELOVED FATHER, HUSBAND, TEACHER, AND FRIEND
1949–2025
Below it were the words he'd chosen himself.
Take care of each other. The road is long.
Karen stood before the stone holding a small bunch of white flowers.
For a moment, she couldn't speak.
Then she knelt beside the grave.
“Hey, Dad.”
The wind moved through the leaves.
She placed the flowers carefully.
“I finally took your bike out again.”
Her voice trembled.
“Did everything the way you taught me. Checked the tires, brake fluid, chain tension. Even listened to the engine before starting it.”
She smiled faintly.
Then her expression changed.
“Ran into somebody who didn't much care about doing things properly.”
For a while, she sat quietly.
Gabriel had been a motorcycle mechanic for most of his life.
He wasn't wealthy.
He didn't hold political office.
And he never believed a person's salary told him anything important about their character.
He opened his first repair shop with borrowed tools and a rented garage, then spent thirty-eight years fixing motorcycles for people who sometimes couldn't afford to pay.
He taught neighborhood teenagers how engines worked.
He repaired scooters for delivery workers.
And he kept a coffee pot in the shop even when business was slow.
He also loved motorcycles with an almost ridiculous enthusiasm.
When Karen was young, he'd tell her that every machine had a personality.
Some were stubborn.
Some were delicate.
Some demanded patience.
And some were beautiful enough to make a sensible person behave foolishly.
The Ducati was his great indulgence.
He purchased it after surviving a serious illness, telling Karen that he'd spent too many years waiting for the perfect time to do something he loved.
He rode it carefully.
Maintained it obsessively.