Eli sits, tied to a chair, bloodied and beaten. It’s not just his physical injuries I see. I see a man thoroughly defeated. A man without hope. He sags when he sees us, but it’s not relief that crosses his face, it’s disappointment. His first words crush my spirit as he confirms my deepest fear has come true. I can’t help feeling that it’s my fault somehow, that it’s a manifestation of my constant fretting.
“You’re too late. They took her.”
Chapter 24
Naomi
My hair sticks to my face, and I can hardly see through the relentless downpour that turns the freshly turned soil into a slippery mess. Mud clings to my pants, coating my feet, and my arms ache from digging. In the distance, there’s the sound of thunder, and then lightning flashes, bathing the graveyard in light before darkness swallows us once more. Fresh blisters bloom on my hands, and a splinter from the shovel gouges its way into my flesh. But I don’t stop. I can’t.
Chopper has his gun trained on me from his sheltered spot underneath the canopy of leaves, nature’s haven from the rain. I feel bizarrely resentful of the oak tree for keeping him dry, as if it has betrayed me by doing so, this sturdy tree that has provided me with shade on days I would visit my parents’ grave. I briefly glance up at my parents’ gravestone. It’s a beautiful black marble slab with an intricate design. The one good thing that came out of Eli working for the Rusted Scythes. Two months after he started laundering money for them, he came home and told me that finally, we’d be able to afford a decent headstone to mark their final resting place. It’s a uniquely cruel torment, forcing me to work alone to dig up my parents’ grave, to make me be the one to desecrate it. The task would be far quicker if all three of us worked together, but Cherri stayed in the truck, unwilling to mess up her hair in the rain, and Chopper seems to be in no rush. He’s enjoying watching me struggle, happy to prolong my torment.
The deeper I dig, the more my hope wavers. I thought that Eli had given up the location this time, that their torture and tricks had worked, and that we would find the information the Rusted Scythes so desperately want. The information they’re willing to kill for. But with each fresh clod of dirt, I turn up empty-handed, and I wonder if my brother has signed my death warrant.
How deep could he have buried it?
The deeper I get, the more certain I become that I am digging my own grave. Chopper will kill me and bury me here with Mom and Dad. At least we’ll be together. The pain of their loss hits me, as fresh as the day it happened, as I picture myself dying here, mere feet apart.
Perhaps Chopper is bored, or maybe he just wants to add to my pain, but he strikes up a conversation. “I knew your parents, you know,” he calls out, his voice getting whipped away by the wind, so he has to move closer and repeat himself.
“You did?” I ask, using the opportunity to pause and catch my breath. I lean on the shovel, breathing heavily as I glance over at him.
He nods, strolling closer. His sharp canines flash in the moonlight as he smiles predatorily. “Oh yes. You could say your father is the reason I became Prez of the Rusted Scythes.”
I can’t hide my curiosity, though it kills me to see the satisfaction in his expression when I respond. “He was?” I’m hungry for any information about this part of my father’s life. It’s hard for me to reconcile the kind, gentle father I knew with the men I’ve encountered in the Rusted Scythes—cruel, misogynistic, selfish men.
There’s a wicked, knowing gleam in his eyes. He clearly likes holding this over me. “Oh yeah. I could tell you, but I wouldn’t want to stop you from finding the memory stick, that is, if your brother didn’t sail you down the river without a paddle to save his own skin. That seems to be a common theme with your brother. He’s a coward and a traitor. Just like your old man. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.”
I’m desperate to ask him what he means, but that’s precisely what he wants. Instead, I pick up the shovel. My muscles scream in protest and my hands throb, but I grit my teeth, summon my resolve, and continue to dig. I resolutely ignore Chopper, refusing to look at him, instead focusing my gaze on the ground as I plunge the spade in. My patience is rewarded as Chopper continues his tale.
“The Rusted Scythes had another Prez when your father was a member, your grandfather. Your father eventually fell in love with your mom, the Prez’s daughter, which goes against all of our codes of honor, but somehow, he got away without even a warning. Your grandfather permitted them to marry when he’d refused everyone else who had made passes at her.” Chopper seems especially bothered by this, and I wonder if maybe he had feelings for Mom, which is why he’s so resentful that she married my dad.
“So, what is this?” I sneer. “You’re doing all this because you’re jealous my mom picked Dad instead of you?”
Chopper curls his lip and clenches his fists. I’ve hit a nerve. “Cheryl would have been lucky to have a real man like me. Not the traitorous coward she married.”
“Shut your fucking mouth, you’re half the man my father was,” I snarl, rounding on him.
Chopper smiles, unbothered, as if he’s got one over me. “That’s because you don’t know the truth about your old man. One day, not long after you were born, your father said he didn’t want to be a member of the Rusted Scythes anymore. He claimed he wanted to focus on fatherhood. I think he’d just got what he wanted, and you brats were a good excuse to back out. He never really fit in with us. I was glad to see the back of him. Then, the year he died, I uncovered the truth about Mac. Suddenly, it all made sense. Your father was a Road Renegades spy. All the years he’d been posing as one of us, he was reporting back to our enemy.” Chopper pauses, watching for my reaction.
I can’t hide the surprise on my face. Is it true? Could my father really have been a Road Renegade, acting undercover with the Rusted Scythes, reporting back, and keeping people safe? If he were, it would explain a lot. Why my father was nothing like the Rusted Scythes, yet chose to be a member there instead of at the club that would have suited him better. The happiness I feel about my father being one of the good guys, one of us, washes over me. Chopper notices it and glowers at me.
“Oh, you think that’s noble of him, do you? That being a rat is a good thing?” he sneers.
“I didn’t say anything. As far as I was concerned, my father wasn’t a member of any club when he died, hadn’t been for a long time,” I reply with a shrug, feigning nonchalance.
“Doesn’t change the fact he was a fucking mole, that he betrayed his brothers,” Chopper says with venom, spitting on the floor as if there’s a foul taste in his mouth. “Your grandfather was as soft as you. He said that what Mac did was in the past, that he wasn’t a spy but simply fell in love with a woman he would never be allowed to have if we knew the truth. Mac was married to his daughter; he was family. He believed Mac whenhe said he loved your mother, that he’d left the Road Renegades the day he met her and hadn’t fed them information, but I knew the truth. Your whole family was traitors who needed to be made an example of. If the Rusted Scythes allowed your father to get away with it, everyone would think we were weak.”
My blood turns to ice as I listen to him rant. I continue digging, scared he’ll stop talking if I don’t, yet wanting to stop and cover my ears at the same time.
“So, I did what we had to do. I ignored my Prez’s orders and took matters into my own hands. The old man was weak, dying. We needed a new, strong leader who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. We weren’t expecting your mom to be home that day. She was meant to be at the hospital, visiting your grandfather, who was dying of cancer. I’m sure you remember,” he adds with a chuckle, as if this family tragedy were something I could forget.
I remember mom telling me that morning, before I left for school, that the hospital had called and asked her to come in the afternoon instead, since they were running tests on Grandpa in the morning. I hated the hospital for that. She wasn’t supposed to be home when the burglars arrived. Her death was a cruel twist of fate.
“It turned out that your mom being home made our revenge sweeter. Your dad cried like a baby, bleeding out while he watched us. You remember what we did to her, don’t you?” he asks sweetly.
As if I could forget. The intruders had raped my mother before murdering her. The details of what they did to her were depraved, sickening. The police had looked into the Rusted Scythes, but given the family connection to the club, they didn’tsee a motive. Plus, the killers took all of the valuables in the house. The cops eventually ruled it a burglary gone wrong. They believed that the killers didn’t know anyone would be home and then took advantage of the situation. They thought Dad died before Mom, that the bullet in his chest took him before Mom was shot in the head, ending her torment. I feel sick imagining his dying moments, helplessly watching men he knew abuse the woman he loved in that way.
The implications of what Chopper is telling me sink like a stone in my stomach. This whole time, my parents’ killers have been walking free, right under my nose.
