“No hospitals,” I snapped, grabbing my kutte. “Pike has friends on the force. He’ll finish this if she shows up on a screen.”
I turned to the dog. Shadow was licking blood from his flank, eyes fixed on me. He nudged my boot and whined low.
“He knows where she is,” Logan said, already loading his weapon.
“The old farmhouse,” I said, the truth settling like a weight. “Pike’s family place. Twelve miles north. Same place he killed my mom.”
The room shifted. It wasn’t a clubhouse anymore. It was a unit. Chains rattled. Boots hit the floor.
“Ride,” the president growled, tossing me a shotgun.
The drive north blurred into rain and fury. I didn’t feel the cold or the slick road—only the phantom weight of a seven-year-old in my arms and Julia screaming in my head.
I left her, I thought. Prison for a bar fight. Walking away because I thought she deserved better.
Instead, I left her to a monster.
We cut engines a mile out. The rain covered our approach. The farmhouse stood rotting in an overgrown field, one window glowing sickly yellow.
I didn’t wait.
I kicked the door in.
Harold Pike sat at the kitchen table with whiskey and a cigarette. Older now. Thinner. Same dead eyes.