My phone is already to my ear, connecting to Stone, who answers while ordering Tank to track the guy who was watching Emma.
“She’s gone,” I say when I see her car accelerate and disappear around the corner.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“I mean, she just stole someone’s car and drove off.”
There’s a beat of silence before he mutters, “Fuck. Pull up the tracker then. Find her.”
I’m already moving toward my truck. “Don’t need it.”
“Bones—”
“We’re in Stoneheart, Stone. And there’s only one place Emma Armstrong would go to hide.”
I hang up before he can argue, throwing myself into the driver’s seat and peeling out after her. It feels too slow, and I’m pissed I don’t have my bike right now, but with Emma’s ankle in the boot, she can’t really sit on the back of my Harley.
The back road only goes two directions—toward the interstate or toward the clubhouse. And Emma doesn’t run away from home anymore. She runs toward it.
The Honda’s taillights are long gone, but I know these roads. Know exactly where she’s heading.
The hickory grove.
She thinks I don’t know about it. Her secret spot. The place she’d disappear to when she was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen—whenever Stone pissed her off or the club got too loud or she just needed to be alone.
But I always knew.
I was the one Stone sent to find her. I’d track her there, hang back just far enough that she’d think she was alone, and wait until she was ready to come home. Sometimes that took an hour. Sometimes all night.
I never told her I knew where she went. Let her keep her secret place. But I always knew.
I take the turn toward the clubhouse, then veer off onto the narrow dirt road that leads into the woods. Sure enough, there’s the Honda, parked at an angle like she just abandoned it.
I kill my engine and get out, listening.
Nothing. Just wind in the trees and the distant sound of bikes from the main road—probably Tank and Hawk out searching.
I pull out my phone and text Stone:
Me:
Found her. Give me some time and I’ll bring her back.
His response is immediate:
Stone:
She OK?
Me:
Will be.
I pocket my phone and head into the woods, following the path Emma carved through the underbrush. Her surgical boot left distinctive marks in the soft earth—dragging, uneven, like she was hopping more than walking.
She’s going to fuck up her ankle even worse doing this.
But I understand. When panic hits, when that fight-or-flight response kicks in, you don’t think about physical therapy protocols. You just move.
