Once I get a handle on what the investigation has uncovered, I’ll be in a better position to help, but that requires convincing Gage—and Aunt Nora and Pope—that I’m finally feeling well enough to do it.
That starts now.
I slide off the bed and snag a pair of jeans to pull on under Gage’s shirt I slept in. The metal treads of the stairs are cold under my bare feet, but I move as silently as I can to try to surprise him. But the usual sounds of him working on the Indian don’t fill the space, and when I reach the bottom step and can see the whole garage, it’s empty.
He wouldn’t have left me, which means he’s outside on a call that he doesn’t want me to overhear.
Annoyance tightens my chest, but I try to take a deep breath and release it before I get all worked up over his continued secrecy.
Maybe he just didn’t want to wake me up.
That’s probably wishful thinking, and I step up to the small pedestrian door and peek out through the old, wavy glass window at the top.
Gage stands near the end of the driveway, phone to his ear and back to the shop, seemingly oblivious to the rain falling on him, his shirt and hair already wet.
As anxious as I am to know who he’s talking to and about what, I won’t be able to hear anything from here anyway, so I turn back to the shop and make my way over to his Indian that still rests up on the stand.
It really is a beautiful old bike, and it seems that the last several days have given Gage time to make some headway on it.
A few random bike parts lay scattered on the cracked concrete around the base of the stand along with various tools and instruments, and I move past them over to the workbench along the wall to examine the rest of his stuff.
I haven’t had a chance to explore down here yet.
He either had me tied up upstairs—literally and figuratively—before the bombing, or I’ve been too tired and sore since then to wander down here. Any time he was working on something in the main shop while I slept, he would come back up as soon as he realized I was awake.
The old place has a certain charm, even if it isn’t much to look at, and I find myself grinning at all the tools that look older than me that must have come with the place.
Other than his bikes and tools, there isn’t much else to look at other than the door at the far corner of the main space.
I vaguely remember noticing it when I came in that first night, and with the building layout, it makes sense there would be a small storage room of some sort there, directly beneath the bathroom upstairs.
This door is solid, so there isn’t any way to peek inside without opening it, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I need to know what’s inside.
I try the knob, but it doesn’t budge.
Locked.
Why would Gage keep it locked if he’s the only one who’s ever in here?
Interest piqued, I go back to his workbench and grab a screwdriver. I learned very early on how to get into places where I wasn’t supposed to be, and it only takes me a few seconds to get the lock popped.
I nudge the door open and step into the dark room.
With no windows, it’s almost pitch black in here, and I reach to the wall for a light switch and flick it on.
I instantly wish I hadn’t.
Oh, God…
It takes a few moments for me to fully process what I’m seeing because my head can’t make any sense of what my eyes are taking in.
Walls covered in photographs of all of us…The Hawkes.
Outside the club.
Outside our homes.
Outside The Grind and the bookstore.
