I could see it.
Or perhaps she hated the three years represented by them.
Sometimes grief loses track.
Finally she looked at Colt.
“You drive.”
Colt nodded.
“Hammer sits in the back.”
Hammer nodded too.
Mara looked toward the deputy.
“You coming?”
The deputy blinked.
“Me?”
“You wanted everyone calm.”
Several riders almost laughed.
The deputy sighed.
“I’m still on lunch.”
I looked at his untouched meatloaf.
“Technically.”
He pulled out his wallet, left cash beneath the plate, and reached for his hat.
“Fine.”
The Copper Lantern emptied in less than five minutes.
I locked the diner.
My waitress stared.
“We’re closing?”
“For an hour.”
“You have never closed for an hour.”
“There’s a first time.”
She looked toward the row of bikers climbing into pickup trucks instead of motorcycles.
Then at me.
“You’re going too?”
“Absolutely.”
I had owned that diner for twenty-two years.
I had listened to enough stories through coffee cups to know when you did not miss the ending.
The Iron Saints’ workshop stood on the industrial edge of Flagstaff, behind a welding business and across from a tire warehouse.
From outside it looked exactly like the kind of place Mara imagined whenever she thought about the club.
Corrugated steel.
Faded black door.
Old motorcycles parked under a covered awning.
A hand-painted Iron Saints emblem over the entrance.
Inside surprised her.
Work benches.
Tool chests.
Engine stands.
Photographs.
A refrigerator covered with children’s drawings.
A corner stacked with donated backpacks for a school drive.
Three shelves of canned food labeled for a local pantry.
A box of stuffed animals used during the club’s annual children’s hospital ride.
Lucy stopped.
Mara did too.
Neither commented.
Hammer walked past them.
At the rear of the building stood a bank of old steel lockers.
Numbers painted in white.
Ten.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Fourteen.
Fifteen.
Sixteen.
Seventeen.
Hammer stopped.
He did not touch it.
Lucy stepped forward.
The brass key shook slightly in her hand.
Mara crouched beside her.
“You don’t have to do this.”
Lucy looked at her mother.
“Yes I do.”
Mara swallowed.
Then nodded.
Lucy put the key into the lock.
It stuck.
Hammer almost reached forward.
Stopped himself.
Lucy twisted harder.
Click.
The door opened.
Nothing fell out.
No giant secret.
No money.
No weapon.
Just a shelf.
Eight envelopes tied together with faded red cord.
A small child-sized black leather vest folded carefully beneath them.
A rectangular digital recorder in a plastic bag.