Empty except for the digital recorder.
Lucy looked confused.
Hammer opened the locker.
“This is yours now.”
“It already was.”
“No.”
“I mean the locker.”
She stared.
“What am I supposed to do with a locker?”
“Whatever you want.”
Lucy thought.
Then placed the recorder inside.
Closed the door.
Locked it.
“Done.”
Hammer raised an eyebrow.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
She kept the key.
For another five years.
At fourteen, she asked Mara whether Owen knew he was going to die on the ride.
Mara answered:
“Probably.”
At fifteen, she asked whether Mara wished she had stopped him physically.
“Yes.”
At sixteen, she asked whether Mara would have forgiven Owen if he came home alive after doing something so reckless.
Mara thought.
“Eventually.”
At seventeen, Lucy asked Hammer whether he regretted keeping the promise.
“Yes.”
The answer surprised her.
“You’d break it now?”
“I’d keep less of it.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’d protect what Rook wanted private.”
“But I’d tell your mother enough that she didn’t build three years around a lie.”
Lucy nodded.
“Would Dad be mad?”
“Extremely.”
“You care?”
Hammer smiled.
“He’d be dead.”
Lucy laughed.
Then Hammer became serious.
“Promises aren’t automatically good because somebody dying asked for them.”
Lucy remembered that.
At eighteen, she wanted to learn to ride.
Mara knew the request was coming.
She had been preparing arguments for five years.
When Lucy finally asked, Mara said:
“No.”
Lucy blinked.
“Mom.”
“No.”
“I’m eighteen.”
“Congratulations.”
“Hammer said—”
“Hammer enjoys breathing.”
Hammer, seated at the kitchen table, nodded immediately.
“I do.”
Lucy stared.
“You both promised Dad.”
Mara’s expression changed.
“No.”
“He promised us something.”
“We didn’t promise him that you get a motorcycle at eighteen.”
“Let her choose the road.”
“Choosing does not mean choosing without people who love you telling you when you’re being ridiculous.”
Hammer raised his coffee.
“Correct.”
Lucy looked betrayed.
“You’re supposed to be the biker.”
“I’m also old.”
The argument lasted three weeks.
Finally Mara compromised.
Certified safety course.
Protective gear.
No borrowed high-powered motorcycles.
No night riding for the first year.
No canyon until Hammer signed off on her skill.
Lucy complained every step.
Then followed every rule.
Hammer did not teach her himself at first.
That surprised her.
“Why not?”
“Because loving you makes me a bad instructor.”
She stared.
“What?”
“If you fall, I’ll panic.”
“You never panic.”
Hammer gave her a look.
“You were four the first time I watched you climb a tree.”