Chapter Twelve
Bob
I woke up with Ramona’s leg hooked over mine and her face buried against my shoulder.
There were worse ways to start a fucking day.
I stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, listening to her breathe while I tried to decide if I actually needed to get up.
The answer was yes. The answer had been yes for at least ten minutes, but every time I thought about moving, Ramona shifted a little closer and gave me another reason to stay exactly where I was.
Last night had been good. Our new normal. Or as normal as anything could be when you lived on an island where somebody kept leaving dead bodies and fucked-up messages for your motorcycle club.
We’d ended up back at the clubhouse for dinner. People hung around afterward, drinking, talking, and giving Ramona shit about her RV. She gave it right back.
I liked watching her with everyone. She fit.
I hadn’t expected that. Hell, I hadn’t expected any of this.
A week ago, I was sitting in a hospital room wondering how long it would take before I could walk across a fucking room without feeling like I’d run ten miles.
Now Ramona was sleeping beside me, my strength was coming back a little more every day, and I’d spent a good chunk of last night kissing a woman I’d once known as my best friend’s little sister.
Clint would probably punch me. I’d probably deserve it.
I’d still kiss her again.
That thought made me smile.
Ramona shifted against me and I looked down.
Her hair was all over the place, and one of her hands was curled against my chest. She’d fallen asleep like that after we’d spent way too long kissing and not nearly enough time sleeping.
Nothing else had happened. That didn’t mean I hadn’t thought about it.
A lot.
There was only so much a man could take with a woman pressed against him before his brain started making plans the rest of his body wasn’t ready to follow through on yet.
That was the shitty part.
I was getting better, but I wasn’t back to normal. Yesterday had been the first day I’d gone most of the day without using the wheelchair. By the time we’d gone to bed, I’d felt it. My legs were tired. My whole body was tired.
Didn’t stop me from kissing Ramona. I mean, I had priorities.
I carefully slid my arm out from beneath her. Ramona made a quiet noise and rolled toward my pillow.
I stopped until she settled. “Sorry, doll,” I whispered.
Her eyes stayed closed.
I sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds before standing. I didn’t need to do that anymore, but I’d learned the hard way that jumping up too fast was a good way to have the whole fucking room tilt.
Nothing moved. Good enough.
I grabbed some clothes and headed into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I walked into the common room under my own power. That still felt fucking good.
There were mornings when I woke up and almost forgot what had happened. Then I’d swallow wrong, turn my head too fast, or catch sight of the scar running across my neck in the mirror.
Today, I was going to take walking into the common room as a win.
Piney sat at the bar with a cup of coffee.
His eyes moved toward me, then behind me, and then back to me. “Where’s Ramona?”
“Sleeping.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Don’t.”
“I was about to ask if she wanted coffee.”
“Bullshit.”
Piney smiled into his cup. “Anchor told me to tell you he’s looking for you.”
I grabbed a mug and filled it with hot black coffee. “Anchor’s looking for me? What happened?”
“Nothing new.”
That wasn’t exactly reassuring. “Then why’s he looking for me?”
Piney pushed away from the bar. “Wants to go through Ron’s office. He figured since you’re feeling better, you need to get back to actually helping the club.”
I chuckled and shook my head. “Yeah, it was pretty shitty of me to get my throat slit.”
Piney nodded. “Yeah, enough vacation time.”
I took a sip of my coffee, and Piney slapped me just as the hot coffee touched my lips.
“I’m glad you’re back.” He grabbed his cup of coffee and headed to the door. “Now let’s go see if Ron left us any fucking clues to figure out who this asshole is.”
I slid off the stool and followed Piney. “Let’s go.”
*
Ron’s office smelled stale.
That was the first thing I noticed when Anchor opened the door.
Stale air, dust, and whatever cheap air freshener Ron used that had long since stopped doing its job.
The second thing I noticed was how fucking normal everything looked. Desk. Computer. Two filing cabinets. A couple shelves stacked with binders and paperwork. Printer and fax machine sitting on a table against the wall.
Nothing about the room screamed that the man who’d worked in here had helped somebody terrorize the club.
That pissed me off more than it probably should have.
Ron had been here every fucking day. He’d walked around our businesses. Talked to members. Hired people. Erin had worked here because of him. And all the while, he’d known something. Maybe everything.
I looked around the room.
There were six of us crammed inside. Anchor, Skull, Vin, Piney, Post, and me.
Skull stood beside one of the filing cabinets with his arms crossed over his chest. “We’ve already been through here.”
“Not like this,” Anchor replied. “I want every eye looking at every speck of dust in this place. There has to be something in here that will connect us to the killer.”
Post looked at the desk. “Computer?”
“Already went through it,” Anchor said. “Nothing.”
“Nothing obvious,” I corrected.
Skull pushed away from the cabinet. “Then we look until we know.” That was good enough for me.
I looked toward Ron’s chair. I’d never paid much attention to the guy.
That bothered me now.
How many times had I walked past him? How many times had one of us talked to him while he knew somebody was watching us? Had he known Bernice was going to die? Had he known I was going to get my throat cut?
My jaw tightened.
“Bob.”
I looked over.
Anchor was watching me.
“I’m good.”
“I didn’t ask,” he grunted.
“You were going to.”
His mouth pulled slightly at one corner. “Maybe.” He looked around the room. “Let’s get started.”
We did.
Piney and Post took the filing cabinets.
Vin went through the computer again.
Anchor started with the desk drawers.
Skull took the shelves.
I stood there for half a second trying to figure out where I was going to be useful. Then I noticed the trash can tucked beneath the far side of the desk. I grabbed it.
Post looked over. “Really?”
“What?” I asked.
“Everybody gets drawers and computers. You get a tiny garbage can,” he scoffed.
“Fuck you. Like you want me looking over your shoulder.” I sat in the chair across from Ron’s desk and pulled the trash can between my legs.
There wasn’t much in there other than a few scraps stuck at the bottom.
Nothing.
I ran my hand around the inside. “Please tell me you aren’t digging through Ron’s old trash with your bare hands,” Skull said.
I looked at him. “You worried about me?”
“Little bit.”
I set the can aside and looked underneath the desk. Nothing.
I ran my hand beneath the edge. Still nothing.
Then my fingers hit something. I stopped.
“What?” Anchor asked immediately.
“I don’t know.”
I bent lower and felt underneath again.
Tape. Something was taped beneath the back edge of the desk. “Got something.”
Everyone stopped.
I worked my fingers beneath the tape and pulled. Folded pieces of paper dropped into my hand. I sat up and held it in the air.
“What is it?” Piney asked.
“Paper.”
“No shit,” Post scoffed.
They’d been folded together into a thick square and taped beneath the desk like Ron had wanted them close but didn’t want anyone walking into his office to see them.
“What the fuck?” I muttered.
Anchor moved closer. “What is it?”
I separated the pages.
Six of them.
They weren’t full sheets. Each one looked like it had been cut from a regular piece of printer paper, with a short message printed in the middle.
No handwriting. No signature.
Just words.
I laid the first one on the desk.
DO WHAT I TELL YOU.
The second:
THEY CAN’T KNOW YOU’RE HELPING ME.
The third:
GET HER ON THE ISLAND. I’LL HANDLE THE REST.
My eyes stayed on that one.
“Bernice,” Skull said.
“Has to be,” Anchor muttered.
I picked up the next one.
PRINT WHAT I SEND YOU. PUT IT WHERE I TELL YOU.
Post leaned over my shoulder. “The fucking posters.”
“Some of them, at least,” Anchor said.
I looked at the next one.
DON’T FUCK THIS UP, RON. YOU KNOW WHAT THEY DID.
Nobody said anything. That was different.
I read it again. You know what they did.
Not you know what they’re doing. Did. Past tense.
I laid it on the desk beside the others.
“There’s our fucking connection,” Piney muttered.
“To what?” Vin asked from behind the computer.
“The past.”
“We already knew this shit was connected to the old club,” Post pointed out.
“Yeah, but Ron knew why,” Piney replied.
Anchor picked one of the notes. “Or the killer convinced him he did.”
Skull nodded toward the last paper in my hand. “What’s that one say?”
I unfolded it and my stomach tightened.
BERNICE KNOWS TOO MUCH.
Nobody moved.
I stared at the words.
For a second, Ron’s office disappeared, and I saw blood with Bernice on the floor.
My hand pressed against my neck.
That voice. Low and angry. You should’ve kept your mouth shut.
“Bob?”
I blinked and looked at Anchor.
He was watching me.
I pointed at the note. “That’s what I fucking remembered.”
“I know.”
“No. Think about it.” I pushed myself out of the chair. “We thought maybe whoever attacked us said that because Bernice had already told somebody something. But this proves they were worried about her before that.”
Anchor looked down at the note.
Skull stepped closer. “Ron knew.”
“Yeah.”
“Question is how much,” Post muttered.
I looked at the stack. Probably more than we’d ever get out of him now.
“What if these were instructions?” Vin asked.
“They look like instructions,” Piney said.
“No. I mean actual instructions Ron was getting from the killer.” Vin pointed at the notes. “Not shit Ron wrote down for himself.”
I nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking.”
“Why keep them?” Post asked.