Fifteen
Miles
By the time I cross into Bella Vista, I’m running on fumes and fury.
Smoke’s still tight behind me, steady as a shadow. We don’t stop unless we have to. Gas. Piss. That’s it. Every second feels stolen. Every mile too damn slow. The closer I get to her town, the worse the pressure in my chest gets. Danae didn’t make it home.
The words loop in my head like a curse.
We roll through familiar roads—roads I’ve ridden before when I came to see her. Trees crowd the edges. Fields stretch out in dull winter brown. The sky hangs low, heavy with the kind of gray that presses down on you.
I don’t go to her house first.
I don’t go to the hospital.
I don’t even go to the Saint’s Outlaws clubhouse like originally planned.
I go straight to Dr. Reeves’ address.
Grinder sent it over an hour ago when they landed. Public record. Clean. Suburban. White fence kind of place.
Doesn’t mean a damn thing.
We pull up in front of a two-story house with a manicured lawn and a basketball hoop in the driveway. A minivan sits parked beside a newer model SUV.
It looks normal.
I hate that. Smoke cuts his engine and looks at me. “You sure?” he asks.
“No.”
But I’m already off my bike. My boots hit the pavement hard. My hands are shaking—not from exhaustion. From rage.
I stride up the walkway and don’t bother knocking politely. I pound on the door with the side of my fist like I’m trying to break it down.
Footsteps inside.
A woman’s voice.
“Just a second!”
The door opens. She’s mid-thirties. Blonde. Tired eyes. Holding a toddler on her hip. There’s a little boy peeking from behind her legs.
Domestic.
Normal.
Safe.
Everything inside me snarls. “Yes?” she asks, wary.
“I need Reeves,” I say flat.
“Who—?”
Dr. Reeves steps into view behind her. And when his eyes land on me, I see it.
Recognition.
