Chapter Seven #2
I turned back to my packing, reaching for my jeans and adding them to the growing pile in the suitcase. Each item felt like giving up a piece of myself, admitting defeat in a way that made my chest ache.
When I reached for my mother’s notebook on the desk, my fingers faltered.
That small black book contained everything -- her notes, her suspicions, the pattern of corruption and trafficking she’d died to expose.
Leaving it behind felt impossible, but taking it meant risking everything she’d discovered.
Doc pushed away from the doorframe and crossed the room, his steps measured and quiet. He stopped beside me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
“We should make copies.” He reached past me for the notebook. “You take the original, we keep copies here.”
I nodded, unable to speak past the sudden tightness in my throat.
His fingers brushed mine as he took the notebook, the brief contact sending electricity up my arm.
We crossed lines that we could never erase, shared heat that branded itself into memory.
By morning, under the harsh light of day, we both wore masks and pretended nothing had shifted.
Doc moved to the desk, gathering the scattered files with efficient movements. I watched his hands -- capable hands that had saved lives last night, that had touched me with surprising gentleness hours before. Hands that would continue the work I was being forced to abandon.
“What if they don’t find anything? What if they give up?”
Doc looked up, his blue gaze meeting mine directly. “They won’t,” he said simply. “And I won’t.”
I believed him. That was the thing about Doc -- when he made a promise, it felt like something you could build a foundation on. Something solid in a world that had been shifting beneath my feet since my parents died.
We worked in silence after that, gathering the investigation materials, organizing them into piles to be copied before I left. Our movements formed a careful dance of avoidance -- never too close, never touching, though my body seemed to gravitate toward his like a compass finding north.
When everything was sorted, I turned back to my suitcase, adding toiletries and the few personal items I’d brought with me. It wasn’t much -- I’d traveled light, not expecting to stay long. Even though I’d wanted answers, to find people willing to help, I hadn’t known what to expect.
I zipped the suitcase closed with a finality that echoed in the quiet room. The sound felt like an ending.
“I know this is for the best.” It didn’t sound convincing even to my own ears. “The club needs time to recover. I’ve brought enough trouble to your doorstep.”
Doc stepped closer, his professional demeanor cracking for the first time since we’d left the chapel.
He reached out slowly, deliberately, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
His fingers lingered against my cheek, warm and slightly rough.
“I’ll make sure they keep digging. No matter what it takes. ”
I leaned into his touch without meaning to, my body betraying me.
We stood like that for a moment, suspended between what was appropriate and what we both wanted.
The space between us seemed to shrink, charged with an electricity that had been building since that first kiss in his truck.
“Doc,” I whispered, not sure if I was asking him to stop or to never stop.
His eyes darkened, dropping to my lips for a fraction of a second before he pulled his hand away, taking a deliberate step back. The professional mask slipped back into place, though it fit less perfectly than before.
“The Prospect will be here in ten minutes to pick up the files for copying. We’ll leave as soon as that’s done.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. The moment had passed, but the ghost of his touch lingered on my skin.
We had bigger concerns than whatever was happening between us -- my parents’ killers were still out there, the trafficking ring was still operating, girls were still disappearing.
Personal feelings had to take a backseat to justice.
But as Doc moved toward the door, putting necessary distance between us, I couldn’t help wondering if justice was the only thing worth fighting for.
If safety was worth the sacrifice of whatever might have been growing between us.
If running away was really the right answer, no matter how logical it seemed.
The suitcase sat on the bed, packed and ready. I was doing the sensible thing, the right thing. So why did it feel so much like giving up?
* * *
I stood by the door, my suitcase heavy in my hand, heavier with the weight of everything I was leaving behind.
The morning sun slanted through the apartment windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air like scattered thoughts.
I’d said goodbye to this place a dozen times in my mind, each scenario ending differently -- with answers, with justice, with something I couldn’t quite name that had Doc’s blue eyes and steady hands.
Instead, I was leaving with nothing but my mother’s files and the promise that someone else would finish what she started.
Doc emerged from the kitchen, a travel mug of coffee in his hand. “For the road.” He offered it to me.
Our fingers brushed as I took it, the contact lingering longer than necessary. The warmth of his skin against mine sent a familiar current up my arm, a sensation I’d have to learn to live without. I clutched the mug like a lifeline, breathing in the rich aroma.
“Thanks,” I said, my voice smaller than I intended.
Doc nodded, his gaze never leaving mine.
He’d changed into riding clothes -- jeans, boots, his cut over a plain black T-shirt.
His motorcycle waited out front, and he stood ready to escort me to the safe house himself.
Hours alone on the back of his bike, my arms around his waist, my body pressed against his.
The thought sent heat rising to my cheeks.
“We should get moving.” Despite his words, he made no move toward the door. “Long ride ahead.”
I nodded, unable to find words past the lump in my throat.
This wasn’t goodbye -- he’d visit the safe house, continue working the case -- but it felt like an ending.
The past few days hit hard, every moment of danger and vulnerability sparking a connection between us.
But I worried that fire would burn out once they locked me in some anonymous house three towns over.
The sound of rapid footsteps in the hallway broke our standoff.
Doc tensed, his hand moving instinctively toward the weapon I knew he carried beneath his cut.
But the man who appeared in the doorway wasn’t a threat -- it was Venom.
His breath came in short bursts, like he’d run all the way from the clubhouse.
“Got something you need to see.”
Doc stepped aside to let him in, exchanging a questioning look with me. Venom wasn’t part of the current leadership, but his decades with the club commanded respect.
“Just got word from one of our contacts at the sheriff’s department.” Venom pulled a burner phone from his pocket and set it on the counter. “They’ve been monitoring communications since the attack.”
He reached into his cut and pulled out a sealed evidence bag. Inside, a jagged-edged piece of a police report looked torn from a larger file. The plastic crinkled when he handed it to me.
“Thought you should see this before you go. Might change things.”
I set down my coffee, taking the bag with trembling fingers. The partial report was clearly official -- sheriff’s department letterhead, case number, date stamp. My eyes scanned the document, heart rate accelerating as words jumped out at me.
“Oh my God.” I ran my finger over my mother’s name printed in black and white. “This mentions my mother by name.”
I pointed to a section where the text read: Journalist M.J. Treemont claims evidence of systemic -- before being cut off by a thick black redaction line. My gaze darted to the date stamp in the corner.
My hand reached instinctively for Doc’s arm. “Look at the date. Three days before. She went to the police with evidence. She tried to do this officially.”
Doc took the report from my hands, his expression darkening as he read. His jaw tightened, the muscles twitching visibly.
“This confirms what we suspected. Your mother tried to go through proper channels first. Someone inside the department buried it.”
“And then buried her.” Cold reality settled in my bones.
Doc looked up from the document, meeting Venom’s eyes over my head. I’d been telling them what my mother had discovered, why I thought she’d died, but it seemed this is what it had taken for people to truly pay attention. I could tell this was a game changer for the club.
“And you got this from a contact?” Doc asked Venom, his tone sharper than I’d heard him use with another club member.
Venom shifted his weight, glancing between us. “Yeah, like I said. Contact inside the department. Someone who owes us. Said he found it buried in a locked file cabinet when they were digitizing old reports. Never made it into the system.”
“Which means someone wanted it hidden.” The pieces began clicking into place. “Someone who knew what my mother had found. Someone who ordered her killed to keep it quiet.”
Doc’s eyes returned to mine, the professional distance he’d been maintaining all morning finally cracking. I saw concern there, but also understanding. He knew what this meant as well as I did.
“I can’t leave now. Not with this.” I tightened my hold on Doc’s arm.
“Nova,” he began, but I shook my head, cutting him off.
“No. Even though I’ve told all of you over and over, this is what your club needed to see.
For the Dixie Reapers, this is proof my mother went to the police.
Proof there was a cover-up.” My voice grew stronger with each word.
“If we can find what evidence she brought them, we can expose everyone involved.”
I turned to Venom, who watched our exchange with knowing eyes. “Does your contact know who my mother spoke with? Who took her statement?”
“Working on it. Might take time to dig deeper without raising flags.”
I looked up at Doc. “I’m not leaving.”
Doc’s expression shifted through a range of emotions -- concern, frustration, and finally, a reluctant acceptance. He knew me well enough by now to not bother trying to budge me. Once I set my mind to something, I dug my heels in.
“Savior’s not going to like this,” he said, though there was no real argument in his tone.
“Then Savior doesn’t need to know yet,” Venom suggested, surprising us both. “Not until we have more to go on.”
I looked between the two men -- Doc, the club’s doctor who’d risked his standing to protect me, and Venom, a long-time member with nothing to gain and potentially much to lose by helping me.
With deliberate movement, I set my suitcase down beside the door.
The sound it made hitting the floor was decisive, final.
Running didn’t tempt me. Hiding never crossed my mind.
I would stay to finish what my mother started, the very thing that had gotten her killed.
“Like I said, I’m not going anywhere. I need to see this through to the end.” I met Doc’s gaze steadily.
Doc held my gaze for a long moment before a ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Stubborn,” he murmured, but the word carried something like admiration.
I picked up the evidence bag again, running my fingers over my mother’s name on the report. For the first time in weeks, I felt something beyond grief. I felt hope.
The safe house would have to wait. I had work to do.