7. The Ride #3
Before any of them can stop me, I slam my bike into first gear. I twist the throttle hard, the rear tire screaming as it bites into the loose gravel, kicking up a massive wave of dirt and rocks that slaps against the side of the silver rental car.
I U-turn violently, tearing out of the café lot and heading back toward the state highway at a suicidal speed.
The anger builds in my chest with every mile an hour I gain. The wind screams against my helmet, but it cannot drown out the image of his fingers touching her hair.
One night, I tell myself, my teeth grind together until my jaw flashes with pain. It was a single goddamn night in a cheap room. You have no claim on her. She is nothing to you.
But the lie doesn't stick. The memory of her heavy sighs, the wet heat of her mouth, and the desperate way her fingers dug into my shoulders in Galveston is burned into my brain like a brand. And seeing her sit cornered across from that polished bastard makes me want to burn the whole world down.
I pull into the driveway of Rowe Salvage thirty minutes later, the engine roaring like a wounded beast as I cut through the open gate. I slam the brakes on, the heavy bike skidding to a halt right in front of the workshop bay doors.
I kill the ignition and yank my helmet off my head in one violent motion, tossing it onto the concrete floor where it bounces with a loud, hollow crack.
My chest is heaving as I stand next to my bike, my hands shaking with an excess of pure, unadulterated adrenaline. I want to punch something. I want to take a sledgehammer to an engine block until my muscles fail and my knuckles bleed.
I stride into the dark shade of the workshop, my boots slamming against the cement.
As I walk past the small wooden desk near the tool chest, a sharp, rhythmic clicking catches my attention, and I stop.
The old recording machine sitting next to the landline telephone is blinking. A small, bright red light is flashing in the shadows, indicating a new voice message left while I was out on the road.
I stare at the blinking red light before I reach out, my leather-gloved index finger hitting the play button with an angry, heavy stab.
The machine lets out a loud, static hiss, the tape spinning with a mechanical whir before a voice cuts through the quiet of the workshop. It sounds clean, educated, and completely devoid of any local Texas accent.
"Mr. Rowe," the recording says smoothly. "My name is Alex Vance. I am calling on behalf of the Whitfield Development Group out of Houston."
"We are reaching out to you this morning because our firm has a high interest in acquiring the acreage currently listed under your name, specifically the land survey containing the Rowe Salvage yard and the eastern river frontage."
I freeze. My arms drop to my sides.
"We are currently finalizing the land acquisition for a premium luxury resort deal along the tidal creek," the voice continues, entirely unbothered by the silence on the other end.
"Our investors are prepared to offer you an amount significantly above current market value for the entire parcel.
We are willing to negotiate at any price point to ensure a clean, swift transaction.
Please reach out to our corporate office at your earliest convenience to review the preliminary contract details. Thank you for your time, Mr. Rowe."
The machine lets out a short beep and goes silent. The red light stops flashing, turning into a solid, steady glare.
I stand there in the middle of the dark workshop, the humid coastal wind rustling the paper blueprints on the workbench behind me. My brow furrows deeply, a cold, heavy weight settling into my stomach that has nothing to do with jealousy.
The timing is too tight. The math doesn't add up.
Nora Beckett approached my fence line with an expired lease a few days ago, and begged me to sell her the eastern fifteen acres for a blank check.
And forty-eight hours later, a massive corporate development group from the exact same city calls my private line, offering to buy my entire yard for a resort deal at any price.
Could it be a coincidence? Could two completely separate entities be trying to carve up my mother's dirt at the exact same time?
Or is the city girl playing a completely different game than the one she showed me in the dirt?
First they came for my mother's land.
Now they're coming for mine.
I look out the open bay doors toward the eastern fence line.
I think about her fingers pressed against that river stone this morning.
I think about the way she said Margaret's name.
Carefully.
Like it mattered.
I think about a woman who would kneel in wet dirt for a ghost.
Liars don't do that.
Con artists don't touch river stones like they're sacred.
And grifters don't look heartbroken when they say a dead woman's name.
None of that fits the picture I'm trying to build. And I have been trying like hell to build it.
The problem is Nora Beckett keeps dismantling it with small, quiet things she doesn't even know I'm watching.
The stakes just went through the goddamn roof.
And I have a feeling the river isn't the only thing about to get bloody.