Page 43 of Bone’s Choice

I took the last drag off my cigarette and crushed it into the ashtray. No.

Her reply was again instant. Good. Come eat.

I stared at the screen. Then another message came through. Pot roast.

Well, fuck. She knew exactly what she was doing.

I shoved the paperwork away and stood.

We still didn’t know who the dead guy was. Didn’t know who had sent him. Didn’t know how the coffin had ended up at the Milwaukee transfer dock. And after spending the last two days digging into every fucking angle we could think of, we weren’t much closer to knowing any of it.

The casket itself had given us something, but not enough.

Bull had tracked the serial number. It had been one of ours, built almost eight months ago and shipped to a funeral home outside Madison. Everything about that order checked out.

Except the funeral home didn’t have it anymore.

They’d sold it to another funeral home after a family changed their mind on the finish.

That place had supposedly sent it somewhere else.

We were still working our way down the fucking chain.

I hated loose ends. Right now, I had enough of them to tie a goddamn net.

“Where you going?” Myth asked when I walked out of the office.

“Ma’s.”

He looked at the clock behind the bar. “Everything okay?”

“She made pot roast.”

Myth nodded. “Understandable.”

I grabbed my keys. “Call me if anything comes up.”

“You’ll be two miles away.”

“Still call.”

“I know how phones work, Bone.”

I flipped him off and headed outside. The sun was getting lower, but there was plenty of daylight left. I climbed onto my bike and started it.

Two minutes later, I was heading up the road. I’d been thinking about riding again anyway.

Yesterday hadn’t exactly done what I’d wanted it to.

I’d left the clubhouse to clear my head; instead, I’d found Hazel.

Or she’d found me. No. I’d definitely fucking found her.

I’d been the idiot who’d turned around.

I pulled into Ma’s driveway and killed the engine. The smell hit me before I even reached the front door.

Pot roast.