I end the call and meet his eyes. “Danae didn’t make it home.”
He doesn’t ask who Danae is. He’s heard her name enough. “She missing?”
“Yeah.”
Smoke flicks the cigarette away and swings onto his bike without another question. “We riding out or what?” he asks.
I nod once.
“Then quit standing there.” Smoke’s entire demeanor is serious now.
I shove the phone into my pocket and mount up. This time when I start the engine, it’s not about freedom.
It’s about fury.
We pull out of that gas station like hell’s chasing us. I don’t pace myself. I don’t think about fuel efficiency. I don’t think about speed traps.
I think about her walking to her car after work. I think about two flat tires recently. I think about Dr. Reeves offering her rides. I think about her saying she was uncomfortable.
Fear crawls up my throat and turns into something darker.
Rage.
The highway blurs.
Wind whips so hard it feels like it’s trying to tear my helmet off.
Smoke stays tight on my right side. He doesn’t try to slow me. He doesn’t try to talk or signal to calm down.
He just rides.
My phone buzzes once in my pocket at eighty-five miles an hour. I don’t stop.
Another buzz.
I grit my teeth and keep twisting the throttle.
Every mile feels like an insult. Every state line then county line like it’s mocking me for being this far away.
I replay every conversation I’ve had with her the past month.
Every detail. Every hint.
Did she sound scared? Did she mention something I brushed off? Did I miss it?
The what-ifs are worse than the silence. Because silence means I don’t know. And not knowing is its own kind of torture.
When we stop again for fuel, I yank the helmet off before the engine even dies.
Phone out.
Four missed calls.
Raff again.
And one from Grinder.
I call Raff first.
