PROLOGUE / BELLA #2
It isn't a threat, which is what makes Lyle move so fast. He slips past Kane without another word. The screen door slams behind him, and the cafe exhales.
Kane watches him go. "Did he touch you?"
"No. He didn't."
"Threaten you?"
"Not exactly."
His eyes come back to mine. "That's not what I asked."
"And I answered."
We stare at each other across three feet and a lifetime of knowing each other.
He stood at the back of my father's funeral, where I could pretend not to see him. I went to King's because staying away would've looked like fear. I stood at the back, just like he did for my father. We haven't spoken properly since my father, Red, died.
"You shouldn't be here," I say.
"Probably not."
The answer catches me wrong. Too dry and too familiar.
"What do you want?"
"To keep you alive."
A sharp, humorless laugh escapes me. "Your club's helped my family enough, don't you think?"
His jaw ticks once, but his face stays still.
Around us, chairs scrape. My regulars suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be. Marisol comes through the kitchen door, takes one look at Kane, and starts herding people out. Nobody wants to be trapped in the middle of this.
Kane waits until the last customer leaves. I hate him a little for that patience.
"I heard about Franklin," he says. "And the cut power."
"Congratulations, you've heard the gossip."
"This isn't random."
"I gathered that when a man explained the criminal business model over coffee."
I fold my arms. "You don't get to walk in here wearing that patch and act like you're the answer."
"I'm not acting like anything, Bella."
"Your father stripped mine of his patch."
"I know."
"He gave him an ultimatum when he needed help."
"I know that too."
"He took the only thing my father had left and then watched him drink himself into the ground because of it."
Kane's jaw tightens. "Your father was a drunk," he says. "He drank himself into that grave."
The words hit like a slap. I step closer before I decide to. "Because of your father."
"My father should've made different choices."
"That's easy to say now he's dead."
"Yes…yes it is. But it's still true."
The flat agreement steals the next thing from my mouth. He doesn't defend King or soften Red either. Both truths sit between us, ugly and alive.
"My father isn't here," Kane says. "I am."
"You think that fixes it?"
"No."
"Then what are you doing?"
"Offering you protection."
"I don't want it, thank you very much."
"I know you don't."
I almost laugh again. He's used this calm tone since he was twenty and already learning how to end arguments without raising his voice.
"But I'm going to say this again. I'm not my father, Bella."
My name in his mouth is worse than the rest of it, lower and rougher, familiar enough to make something old turn over inside me. I remember every version of him I’ve ever tried to forget.
His gaze drops to my crossed arms, then returns to my face. He never crowds me or reaches for me; the restraint is its own kind of torture.
"Two brothers can be here before you open," he says. "Another two at close. Nobody gets near you alone."
"No. I said I don't need it."
A beat passes before he says, "Okay. Fine."
I blink. "That's it?"
"You said no."
"And you're actually leaving?"
His mouth shifts, not quite a smile. "Why? You want me to stay?"
The heat turns vicious. "Get out."
He nods once, then looks back at the broken window from the door. "This doesn't stop because you told me no."
Then he leaves, and I spend the day proving him wrong.
The window gets boarded. Franklin still won't answer, so I drive two towns over for produce while Marisol calls me stubborn and tells me that I look at Kane like my mouth's watering.
By three-thirty, the cafe is clean, stocked and locked. By four, I'm on River Road with the windows down because my air-conditioning died last summer and pride is apparently more affordable than repairs.
The road runs beside the water for six miles before it bends inland toward my house. Trees press close on one side. The river flashes brown-green through the other.
I see a black truck with no front plate in my mirror near the old quarry turnoff. It rides my bumper for half a mile, slowing when I slow and speeding up when I do.
My pulse hammers. "Come on," I mutter. "Pass me."
The truck swings out. For one relieved second, I think it will. Then it comes alongside and moves right.
Metal screams as its fender clips mine. My car jerks toward the river.
I wrench the wheel left. Tires spit gravel. The back end fishtails, catches, swings again.
The truck hits me a second time, not hard enough to roll me but hard enough to make the point.
I slam the brakes. The truck surges ahead, cuts across my lane, then disappears around the bend. My car stops crooked on the shoulder.
I grip the steering wheel until my fingers ache. My breath comes too fast. The river slides past ten feet away, indifferent and deep.
I sit there until the shaking stops. Then I drive home.
I lock the door, check it twice, and stand in my kitchen with both hands braced against the counter. The house is silent. My father's old shop rag hangs from the register key I brought home by mistake, red cloth dark with years of grease that'll never wash out. I stare at it.
"I can't handle this by myself," I mutter.
The words sound like defeat, and maybe they are. I pick up my phone.
There are three numbers I could call. Sam, who'll write another report. Marisol, who'll come over with a skillet as a weapon. And Kane.
It's the only door in Ransom I swore I'd never walk through. I hate needing it, hate that it's his, and hate the flare of heat beneath the fear when I press his name. He answers on the first ring.
"Bella."
I close my eyes. "I need help."