I'm here. You're safe. Go to sleep.
I fall asleep faster than I have in months.
2
JETT
Idon't sleep.
Can't. Every time I close my eyes, I see her bruised wrist. The split in her lip. The way she flinched when Whiskey laughed too loud, her shoulders drawing up like she was bracing for a blow.
Someone broke this woman. Systematically. Carefully. Over a long period of time.
And I want to break them right back.
I stand in the shadows of the back lot, watching her window until the light goes out. It takes a while. She's restless up there, moving around, probably trying to convince herself she's safe enough to sleep. When she finally appears at the window and presses her hand to the glass, something cracks open in my chest.
I nod at her. A promise.I'm here. Go to sleep.
She does. The light stays off.
I smoke three more cigarettes before I finally head inside.
My office is at the back of the clubhouse, a cramped room with a desk piled high with paperwork I should have dealt with weeks ago. I ignore all of it and pull up the file I've already started on my laptop.
Sparrow Delaney.
The basics came in fast. Address in Ohio, but it's old. Her parents are still there, still married, worried sick about their daughter who dropped off the map six months ago. Employment history is spotty. Short-term jobs, cash work, nothing that leaves a paper trail. Smart. Paranoid. Hunted.
She stopped using credit cards eighteen months ago, every transaction carefully switched to cash only. Around the same time the bruises probably started showing up, forcing her to learn how to hide them with makeup and long sleeves.
My phone buzzes against the scarred surface of my desk. A contact at the DMV, someone who owes me enough favors to keep his mouth shut and his questions to himself. An old address in Columbus. A name on a shared lease from two years back.
Garrett Ashworth.
The name means nothing to me at first, just letters on a screen. I dig deeper, pulling up everything I can find.
Senator's son. Trust fund. Philanthropist. The kind of man who smiles for cameras at charity events while his other hand is busy leaving marks on the woman beside him. I find three previous girlfriends who filed reports, then dropped them. A pattern. A predator.
My hand tightens on the phone until the case creaks.
I think about Sparrow's smile, the one she wielded like armor, too bright for someone that damaged. I think about her hand pressed against the window, the naked hope in her eyes when I nodded up at her. I think about driving to Ohio and putting Garrett Ashworth in the ground.
It wouldn't be the first time I've killed a man. Probably won't be the last. The difference is, those deaths were business. This would be personal.
And I don't do personal. Haven't in seven years, not since I watched Marcus bleed out on the floor of this very clubhouse after the Vipers ambushed us. He was more than my president. He was the closest thing to a father I ever had.
I learned my lesson that day. Don't care about anything but the club. Don't let anyone get close enough to become a weakness.
But when I look at the bruises on Sparrow's skin, all those carefully constructed walls feel like paper.
Dawn comes too fast. I haven't slept, but it doesn't matter. I've gone longer without.
Her car is a piece of shit. An ancient Civic with rusted fenders, bald tires, and a transmission that's one hard stop away from falling out entirely. I check it myself, not trusting anyone else with the job. What I find makes my blood run cold.
The backseat is full of everything she owns. Clothes stuffed in garbage bags. A few books, dog-eared and well-loved. A photo of an older woman in a cheap frame, probably a grandmother or aunt. That's it. Her whole life, crammed into the back of a car that shouldn't even be on the road.
She's been living in this thing. Running on fumes. One bad accident away from dying alone on some empty highway where no one would even know to look for her.
