CHAPTER 3
IRON AND OLD NAMES
The garage smelled exactly like the kind of place where men buried the truth.
Oil. Hot metal. Rubber. Cold air slipping beneath the wide industrial doors.
I parked across the street from Voss Custom Motorworks and kept both hands on the steering wheel. The building stood between two older warehouses, its dark windows reflecting the gray Detroit morning. A faded sign hung above the entrance, the letters worn but still legible.
VOSS CUSTOM MOTORWORKS.
Four years ago, Roman had brought me here once.
I had sat on a workbench while he repaired the carburetor on an old motorcycle. His hands had been dirty, his hair falling into his eyes, and he had smiled at me like the world was simple.
Back then, I had believed I knew every version of him.
I had been wrong.
My phone vibrated in the cup holder.
Nia.
Are you there?
I typed back.
Yes.
The response came immediately.
Location shared?
I sent it.
Do not give him anything original. Do not let him corner you. Call me if you feel uncomfortable.
I stared at the message.
I know.
A moment later, another text appeared.
You always say that right before doing something dangerous.
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
Then I looked at the garage again.
The smile disappeared.
I slipped the documents into my bag, checked that the zipper was closed, and stepped out of the car.
The cold struck through my coat. November had not officially arrived, but Detroit already felt like it was preparing to punish anyone who dared to stay outside too long.
When I pushed through the garage door, the noise hit me first.
Metal clanged somewhere in the back. An air compressor groaned. Music played quietly from an old speaker, the bass blending with the rough sounds of machinery.
Then I saw him.
Roman stood beside a black motorcycle with one hand resting on the seat. He wore a dark thermal shirt beneath a worn leather vest, his forearms marked with grease. His hair was shorter than I remembered, his beard trimmed close. He looked stronger, harder, more contained.
But his eyes were the same.
They found me immediately.
Something inside my chest tightened.
“Amara.”
My name sounded different in his mouth now.
Not familiar.
Not safe.
I stopped several feet away. “You asked me to come.”
“I did.”
“Then talk.”
His gaze moved briefly to the bag on my shoulder. “Did you bring the documents?”
“I brought copies.”
His jaw flexed. “I need to see the originals.”
“No.”
The word settled between us.
Roman looked at me for a long moment. “You don’t know what you have.”
“I know enough not to hand over the only evidence I possess to the man who helped destroy my reputation.”
The muscle in his cheek moved.
He did not argue.
That surprised me more than anger would have.
“Fair,” he said.
I had prepared myself for resistance. For the old Roman, the one who could make a room bend around his authority without raising his voice.
This version stood still.
It did not make him harmless.
It only made him harder to read.
A man stepped out from behind a lifted truck near the back of the garage. Darius. I recognized him from the old days, though he looked older now, with a shaved head and a scar running from the corner of his left eyebrow toward his temple.
His eyes moved from Roman to me.
“Amara,” he said.
I gave him a brief nod. “Darius.”
He seemed surprised I remembered his name.
I remembered everyone who had stood in that clubhouse that night.
Some faces had blurred with time.
Not his.
Roman gestured toward a small office separated from the main garage by a glass partition. “We can talk in there.”
“I’m not staying long.”
“I understand.”
Again, that unfamiliar restraint.
I followed him inside, leaving the office door open.
Roman noticed.
He did not close it.
The room was cramped, with a desk, two chairs, a filing cabinet, and a wall covered in old photographs of motorcycles. A space heater rattled beneath the window. The scent of coffee lingered in the air.
Roman remained standing.
I sat down.
He took the chair opposite me, keeping his hands visible on the desk.
“I found a reference to Delta Storage,” I said. “It appears in a property transfer report connected to the old informant file.”
Roman’s expression changed.
Not dramatically. He did not flinch or curse.
His shoulders simply became still.
“Where did you get that?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because the records involving Delta Storage were not part of the evidence presented to the club.”
“Then you knew about them.”
“I knew the property negotiations existed. I didn’t know they were connected to your file.”
I studied his face.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to ask questions before deciding what I knew.”
A bitter laugh escaped me. “You had four years to answer questions.”
His eyes lowered for half a second.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was filled with everything neither of us wanted to touch.
I opened my bag and removed the copies.
I placed three pages on the desk, keeping my hand over the bottom sheet.
Roman leaned forward.
His eyes moved across the first document, then the second. When he reached the property authorization, his brow tightened.
“Where did you get this?”
“An unknown source.”
“Have they contacted you directly?”
“Yes.”
“More than once?”
“Yes.”
“Are you being followed?”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the paper. “I don’t know.”
“Have you noticed anything unusual?”
“Roman.”
“What?”
“You don’t get to interrogate me.”
His gaze lifted.
“I’m not interrogating you.”
“That is exactly what you’re doing.”
“I’m trying to determine whether someone is using you to get to the club.”
I leaned back. “There it is.”
“What?”
“The club.”
His mouth closed.
“You still think in terms of the club first,” I said. “The club, its reputation, its property, its secrets. Everything has to be measured against what protects it.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“You don’t get to tell me what you’re doing. Not after what happened.”
Roman looked down at the documents.
When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “You’re right.”
I hated that answer.
It gave me nothing to fight.
He picked up the second page, careful not to crease it. “This authorization code belonged to the former treasurer.”
“Your former treasurer?”
“Iron Crown’s.”
“And he had access to my file?”
“He had access to the property archive. The informant records were stored in the same system.”
“Convenient.”
Roman’s eyes returned to mine. “The system was supposed to be restricted.”
“But it wasn’t.”
“No.”
“Who else had access?”
“I’m still finding out.”
I pulled the papers toward me. “Then find out without taking my documents.”
“I can arrange an independent review.”
The offer made me pause.
“Independent?”
“Not through the club. Not through anyone connected to me.”
“Who?”
“A legal advocate with no ties to Iron Crown or the property companies. Someone who can authenticate the records and determine whether they were altered.”
I studied him carefully.
“Why would you do that?”
His eyes held mine.
“Because you deserve to know what happened.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
I had spent years imagining Roman saying them. In those fantasies, I had been younger, more desperate, still waiting for him to undo the past with a single sentence.
Now that he had finally said something close to it, I felt no relief.
Only exhaustion.
“You should have thought about what I deserved before you let them call me a traitor.”
Roman did not look away.
“I know.”
My throat tightened.
I pushed the papers back into my bag. “I’m not giving you the originals.”
“I won’t ask again.”
“And I choose the advocate.”
“Yes.”
“I see every communication before anything is shared.”
“Yes.”
“No one from the club contacts me directly.”
“I’ll make sure of it.”
I stood.
Roman rose as well, but he remained on his side of the desk.
For a moment, neither of us moved.
I noticed a small cut across his knuckles. Fresh. His wedding finger was bare.
That detail should not have mattered.
It did.
I hated that some part of me still noticed things about him automatically.
“You look tired,” he said.
My body stiffened.
“That’s not your concern.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t make observations about me.”
His face tightened, but he nodded.
I turned toward the door.
“Amara.”
I stopped without facing him.
“I didn’t know about Maya.”
The world seemed to tilt.
My fingers curled against the strap of my bag.
He had not said her name.
He could not know.
Not yet.
I turned slowly. “What did you say?”
Roman’s brow furrowed. “Nothing. I was going to ask if there was anything else about your life that could affect this investigation.”
The air returned to my lungs, but it did not feel clean.
I forced my expression to remain neutral.
“No.”
His eyes searched my face.
I wondered if he saw the lie.
I wondered if he saw the little girl who carried his eyes and his stubbornness, the daughter he had never held because I had believed he forfeited the right to know her.
“There’s nothing else you need to know,” I said.
Roman’s gaze remained fixed on me.
Then he stepped aside.
I walked out of the office.
Darius stood near the workbench, speaking quietly into his phone. When he saw me, he ended the call.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Perfect.”
His expression suggested he did not believe me.
Roman emerged behind me. “Darius, we need to talk.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
I moved toward the exit, but their voices followed me.
“Someone accessed the archive two weeks ago,” Darius said.
I slowed.
Roman’s voice dropped. “You confirmed it?”
“Confirmed the access. Not the person.”
“Which terminal?”
“The secondary system.”
My hand rested on the door handle.
Darius continued. “The code was assigned to the former treasurer, but the login came through a different terminal.”
“Can you trace it?”
“I’m working on it.”
“Work faster.”
I pushed the door open.
The wind swallowed the rest of their conversation.
Outside, I stood on the sidewalk, breathing in the sharp smell of rain and exhaust. Through the glass, I saw Roman turn toward the entrance.
He had heard me leave.
Our eyes met one last time.
This time, I did not look away immediately.
There was something unsettled in his expression. Not simply guilt. Not only regret.
Fear.
I wondered whether he was afraid of losing the club.
Or whether he had finally begun to understand what he had already lost.
I got into my car and locked the doors.
My phone rang before I could start the engine.
Nia.
I answered.
“Tell me you’re already leaving.”
“I’m in the car.”
“Did you give him anything?”
“No.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“Did he try to control the conversation?”
I looked at the garage.
“Yes.”
Nia exhaled. “Of course he did.”
“He offered an independent legal review.”
The silence on the line lasted several seconds.
“Do you trust him?”
“No.”
“Do you believe he can help?”
I thought of the way Roman had looked at the authorization document. The way his face had changed when he realized the property records might connect to my accusation.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s a better answer.”
I started the car.
Before pulling away, I glanced at the garage one last time.
Roman was still standing near the entrance.
He looked like a man who had finally found the edge of a buried truth and was terrified of what would happen when he dug it up.
I drove away.
But I did not feel free.
Because for the first time, the past no longer looked like one terrible decision.
It looked like a system.
A chain of names, signatures, payments, and silences.
And somewhere inside it was the truth about why Roman had let me go.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel.
This time, I would not allow anyone else to decide what the truth was worth.