Chapter 20 Bryce
brYCE
“Good morning,” I said as I walked into the Clifton Forge Garage. One of the men I’d seen the first day I came here was working on a motorcycle in the first stall.
“Hey there.” He glanced over his shoulder from his crouched position on the floor.
This one wasn’t Emmett. Emmett was the bigger guy with long hair. “You’re Isaiah, right?”
“Yep.” He finished tightening something—a bolt?—with a something tool—a wrench? I’d have to work on my car terms if I was going to hang around here. He put the tool down, then stood. “You’re Bryce.”
“I am. Nice to see you again.” I walked over, my hand outstretched.
“Sorry, I’m greasy.” He held up his hands, making me drop my own. “What can I do for you?”
“I was looking for Dash.”
“Haven’t seen him yet this morning. Still a little early for him to get here.”
It was only seven thirty, but I’d woken Dash up at six. I’d left for the newspaper early to spend some time with Dad. Dash had gone home to shower and change, then I assumed he’d be on his way to work. The garage opened at eight and I didn’t feel like leaving just to come back again.
“Would you mind if I waited?” I asked Isaiah.
“Not at all. Would you mind if I kept working?”
“Go for it.” There was a black stool on wheels a few feet away. I took it, letting Isaiah return to the motorcycle as I took in the space.
For a garage, it was bright and clean. The smell of oil and metal hung in the air, mixing with the crisp morning air flowing in from the open bay door. Car signs were hung on some of the walls, tools on others. It was nearly pristine.
That Mustang was still in its stall. Ever since Dash and I had gone at it like wild animals on that car, I’d kept my nails painted hot-sex red. I smiled to myself, thinking it was my own dirty, little secret that the owner of that car would never know.
“Dash told me that some celebrities get their bikes and cars redone here. Is that a famous person’s motorcycle you’re fixing up?”
“No celebrity.” Isaiah chuckled. “This is mine.”
“Ah. Were you in the club?”
“Nah.” He shook his head. “I just moved here. But this one was cheap so I thought I’d get it. Fix it up.”
That explained why it looked more like a dull mishmash of scrap metal than Dash’s gleaming Harley. Isaiah’s motorcycle had a lot to improve upon if it was going to fit in here.
“Where did you move from?” I asked, but before he could answer, I waved my hand like I was erasing the question. “Sorry. That’s the reporter in me coming out. You’re trying to work and I’m distracting you. Forget I’m here.”
“It’s okay.” He shrugged, still not answering my question as he went back to work.
What was his story? He was handsome. Isaiah had dark hair cut close to his scalp.
A strong jaw. If he smiled, I bet he’d be devastating.
Except Isaiah never smiled. And there wasn’t much light in his eyes.
Had it always been like that? There were so many questions to ask, but I held my tongue.
I doubted he’d answer them anyway. Isaiah had this gentle way about shutting people out.
It wasn’t rude or combative. But his entire demeanor said he was a closed book.
The rumble of an approaching engine grew louder. I stood from the chair, assuming it was Dash.
“Have a good day, Isaiah.”
“Thanks, Bryce.” He waved. “You too.”
Those eyes made me want to wrap my arms around him and never let go. They were so lonely. So heartbreaking. My heart twisted. Did everyone else know about Isaiah’s past? Did Dash?
In the parking lot, I spotted a black motorcycle, but no Dash. So I walked to the office, finding the wrong Slater.
Damn it. I should have looked more closely at the motorcycle along the fence before coming in here—in my defense, except for Isaiah’s, they all looked alike from behind.
Draven stood in the doorway to what I assumed was his office. He wore a blank expression on his face.
“Uh, sorry.” I took a step backward. “I was—”
“Dash isn’t here.”
“Right.” My choices were to wait here or run back to Isaiah. Easy choice. I was halfway to the door when Draven stopped me.
“Come on in.”
Assuming a polite smile, I walked into his office, taking the chair across from his behind the desk. Next time I came here in the morning, I’d wait until nine.
“So . . .” Draven clicked a pen four times. “You met her.”
“Her?”
“Genevieve.”
“Oh. Yes.”
Draven kept his eyes on the pen. “What’s she like? Is she okay? Healthy and all that?”
Well, shit. He made it hard to dislike him entirely. Especially with the guilt that laced his voice. He wasn’t making any excuses, not anymore. And there was a hint of desperation there. My heart softened. There was no questioning Draven had been an unfaithful husband. But he loved his sons.
And wanted to know his daughter.
“I only spent a few hours with her, but she seems healthy. She’s devastated about her mother. But she was sweet. Very kind. She looks a bit like you. She has your eyes and hair.”
“Amina showed me pictures.” He swallowed hard. “She . . . she’s beautiful.”
“From what I can tell, that beauty is inside and out.”
“I want to meet her but I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” he said quietly. “I failed all my children, even the one I didn’t know.”
“Yeah, you probably shouldn’t try to meet her. She, um, thinks you killed Amina.”
He flinched, his knuckles turning white as he strangled the pen. “Oh. Right.”
“If you want a relationship with her, we have to prove you’re innocent.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. I want the truth.” I’d asked him point-blank yesterday if he’d killed Amina. I believed now that he hadn’t. He’d cared for her. “I want to find Amina’s killer.”
“For your story.”
Was this for the story? That’s how this had all started, with my drive to prove myself as a journalist. To show the executives in Seattle I wasn’t a flop.
Except I wasn’t a failure. When I looked at Dad’s career, he’d written countless stories and there wasn’t one that stood out above the others. There wasn’t one crown jewel he touted. Yet he was my hero. He wrote because he loved to write and spread the news.
So did I.
I didn’t need an exposé on a former motorcycle gang to prove my worth. I needed the truth.
This was for me. And . . .
“For Dash.”
This was about saving his father from a life in prison. It was about identifying a murderer. It was about finding the person who might come after Dash one day too.
Somewhere between the time he’d fixed the Goss printer and folded my towels, Dash had slipped into my heart.
Could I get over his criminal past? Could I forget that he’d done violent, vicious things I could barely fathom? Yes.
Because he wasn’t that man anymore. Not to me.
Last night, as I’d watched him scrub my cast-iron pan and wipe down the counters from the biscuit mess, I’d realized how well we fit together. He’d held my heart in his soapsuds-covered hands.
If only he wanted kids.
Did that have to be a deal breaker? Maybe we didn’t have to face that looming end.
I’d already given up on having children, so why make it a requirement to stay with Dash?
Besides, I wasn’t sure if I could even bear children at this point.
Maybe we’d be like the Caseys, my seventy-six-year-old neighbors who lived across the street.
Mr. and Mrs. Casey didn’t have children, and every time I saw them, they seemed hopelessly happy.
Hopelessly happy sounded like a dream.
A new dream.
The office door pushed open and Dash entered, followed closely by Emmett.
“Hey.” Dash walked into Draven’s office, casting his father a brief glance before pretending he wasn’t there.
Dash had shaved and showered after he’d left my house.
His hair was still damp at the ends where it curled at his neck.
It was a good look. A very good look. “What are you doing here? Everything okay?”
I nodded. “I’m good.”
Emmett crowded into the office, not looking at Draven either. Clearly in the time that Dash had left my house, he’d caught up Emmett on Draven’s adultery.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Draven’s shoulders fall. What had he expected? That after a day, all would be forgiven?
Dash was crushed. His mother’s memory was sacred. Chrissy wasn’t here to punish Draven, so Dash was doing it for her.
The only problem was, if we were going to find a killer, we needed to put feelings aside.
“The reason I came here this morning was because I’ve been thinking about something and wanted to run it by you,” I told Dash.
“Shoot.” He leaned against the wall, Emmett beside him.
“The police found a murder weapon at the scene and identified it as Draven’s.
We’ve been operating under the assumption that the knife was Draven’s.
But we also think this was a premeditated setup.
Could the knife have been a fake? You said that it had your name engraved on the side.
What if someone copied it to set you up? ”
Draven shook his head. “They have my prints on it.”
“Can’t prints be faked?” I’d seen it on a murder-mystery movie, so the question wasn’t entirely farfetched. Maybe they’d stolen prints from the handlebars on Draven’s motorcycle.
Emmett nodded. “Possibly. Wouldn’t be easy.”
Dash rubbed a hand over his jaw. “What knife was it again?”
“Just a Buck knife,” Draven said.
“With the cherry handle,” Emmett added. “I borrowed it once a few years ago when I went hunting.”
Cherry? That wasn’t right. I dove into my purse for my yellow notepad, flipping to the page where I’d made a note about the knife’s description. It was the one thing Chief Wagner had told me weeks ago that hadn’t been in the press sheets.
“Not cherry. Black. The knife found at the scene had a black handle.”
“Your knife was cherry.” Emmett shook his head. “I’d bet my life on it.”
My heart was racing. Maybe if there was another knife, we’d find a trail that led to the person who’d faked it. How many people engraved knives in Montana? We were grasping at straws, but it was something.