Mara opened her eyes.
Hammer continued.
“He thought protecting you meant keeping half the truth.”
“And I made another.”
“What?”
“I promised him I’d keep the other half until you were old enough to ask for it.”
Mara laughed bitterly.
“She was five.”
“Yes.”
“You let me hate you for three years.”
“Yes.”
“You let her think her father died because a motorcycle club wanted one last thrill.”
Hammer lowered his head.
“Yes.”
Mara stepped closer.
“Why?”
His eyes lifted.
“Because Rook asked me to.”
“That’s not good enough.”
“I know.”
That answer landed differently.
Mara stared at him.
Hammer continued.
“I know that now.”
Lucy looked between them.
“What’s in the locker?”
Hammer took a slow breath.
“Eight birthday letters.”
Mara’s face changed.
“A child-sized leather vest your dad had made.”
Lucy’s eyes widened.
“And a recorder.”
Mara stared.
Hammer continued.
“Your father recorded something during the last eleven miles of the ride.”
Lucy whispered:
“What?”
Hammer looked at her.
“The recording starts with your name.”
The diner went silent again.
Lucy slid the key into the pocket of her floral dress.
Then looked at Hammer.
“Take me there.”
Mara answered immediately.
“No.”
Lucy turned.
“Mom.”
“No.”
“I want to hear him.”
“You don’t know what’s on that recording.”
“I know Daddy’s voice is.”
Mara’s face tightened.
“Lucy.”
“Mom.”
“No motorcycle.”
The girl stopped.
Hammer said nothing.
One of the riders near the far booth stood.
Colt Brennan was older than Hammer by several years, thin but hard-looking, with gray hair pulled into a short tail.
I knew enough club gossip to know Colt had once nearly forced Hammer out of the Iron Saints because of Owen’s missing patch.
He walked toward the counter.
Then removed his motorcycle key.
Placed it beside the sugar jar.
“I’ll drive the truck.”
Mara looked at him.
“The kid won’t go near a bike.”
Another rider stood.
Placed his key beside Colt’s.
Then another.
One after another, Iron Saints rose.
Not dramatically.
No speeches.
They placed motorcycle keys across my counter until chrome and leather key fobs formed a pile.
Twenty-seven motorcycles outside.
Twenty-seven sets of keys inside.
It was not a challenge.
It was surrender.
Mara stared.
Hammer kept his hands at his sides.
“No bike.”
he said.
“Your rules.”
Lucy looked toward her mother.
“Please.”
Mara looked at the brass key in her daughter’s pocket.
Then at the patch.
Then at the empty rectangle on Hammer’s vest.
She hated the men in that room.