Chapter 1 #2
Richard nodded. He was in his sixties, silver-haired and sharp as a knife, and he’d been practicing law longer than I’d been alive. He’d also lost his own father to a stroke five years ago.
He understood.
“Take what you need,” he said. “Your cases are solid. We’ll redistribute what we have to. Family comes first, Lina.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
“And, Lina?” He looked at me over his reading glasses. “Your father’s lucky to have you.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but I thanked him anyway.
When I got home, Tatum was sprawled on her bed with a book.
Her dark hair—my hair—fell across her face.
She looked up as I entered. In her eyes, I saw John.
Those dark, serious eyes always made the world seem like a puzzle she was determined to solve.
As I watched her, I felt a familiar ache—John’s absence always lingered in moments like these.
Tatum was barely six, but sometimes I forgot just how young she really was. She carried too much wisdom for her age—sometimes it scared me.
“Hey, baby,” I said, sitting on the edge of her bed. “I need to talk to you about something.”
She closed her book and sat up. “What’s wrong?”
“Grandpa had an accident. He’s in the hospital, and we need to go see him.”
Her eyes widened, searching mine for reassurance. “Is he going to be okay?”
“I hope so.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but my worries were hard to hide. “But we need to go to Oklahoma. To Lawton. That’s where I grew up.”
“For how long?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe a few weeks.” I wanted to give her certainty, but I couldn’t.
She thought about this, her small face serious. “Will I get to meet him? Grandpa David?”
My throat tightened. “Yeah, baby. You’ll meet him.” In that promise, I felt hope and worry tangled together.
Tatum had never met my father—her Grandpa David—never touched any piece of my old life except through faded photographs and carefully edited stories.
I’d kept her sheltered, held her inside a bubble spun from hope and fear, always striving to keep the past at bay.
But now, as the air in her room felt heavy and thick, I could sense the bubble thinning, ready to burst. My hands trembled slightly where they rested in my lap, the ache of regret settling deep in my chest. I squeezed her hand, grateful she still cared for my father, even if she’d never met him.
“What about school?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she fiddled with the corner of her blanket.
“I’ll talk to your teacher. You can do your work online for a little while.” I brushed a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, trying to reassure her—and myself.
She nodded slowly. Then her gaze drifted to the window, the pale light catching her features. “Will we see where my dad lived?”
My heart stopped, seized tight, as if someone had wrapped icy hands around it.
I looked away, searching for words as my pulse quickened, the taste of copper sharp in my mouth.
Memories rushed in: the echo of motorcycle engines, the foggy shape of his smile, the ache of loss that never really faded.
“What?” My voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
“My dad. You said he was from Oklahoma. From Lawton. Will we see where he lived?” She watched me closely, her fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve, eyes wide and searching.
I had told her the story when she was four, when her questions first began.
Your father rode a motorcycle. He died before you were born.
He would have loved you so much. Simple, sanitized, a gentle version that explained everything and nothing.
She had accepted it then, but now—now she was older, her innocence chipped by curiosity, her mind sharper, always reaching for what lay beyond the edges of the story.
I felt the weight of her expectations press on me, forcing me to confront truths I had kept buried.
“Maybe,” I said carefully, my voice trembling as I focused on the scar from an old burn along my thumb. “I don’t know if the place is still there.” I felt the old panic rise, my chest tight, thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.
It was the truth. I didn’t know if the clubhouse had survived, if the Diamondbacks had rebuilt, if anything from that night seven years ago was still standing. The memory tasted bitter—smoke, metal, blood—every sense haunted by the possibility that the past might still linger, waiting for us.
Part of me hoped it wasn’t. Part of me hoped the whole thing had burned to the ground and taken every memory with it, so I could finally let go. But another part mourned for what might have been, for the stories left untold.
“Okay,” Tatum said, and before I could respond, she wrapped her arms around me, small and fierce. Her warmth pressed against my neck, grounding me. “I hope Grandpa gets better.” I closed my eyes, holding her close, the tremor of my heart easing just a little at her touch.
“Me too, baby. Me too.” My voice was soft, but my resolve felt stronger, shaped by her hope and my own tangled fears.
We flew out the next morning, just as the sun was beginning to break over the horizon. Tatum blinked awake as the plane prepared for takeoff, rubbing her eyes and looking up at me. “Are we really going to Grandpa David’s ranch?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engines.
I smiled and squeezed her hand. “Yes, baby. We’ll be there soon.”
She settled back against me, her warmth grounding me in the present even as my thoughts raced ahead.
I had packed quickly the night before—clothes for both of us, enough for at least a week, Tatum’s schoolwork so she wouldn’t fall behind, my laptop in case I needed to handle anything for the firm.
I called Mrs. Patterson; told her we were coming and that we’d arrive early afternoon.
She offered to pick us up from the airport, her voice warm and insistent, but I politely declined and rented a car instead.
I needed the control. Needed the independence. Needed to be able to leave if things got too hard, too overwhelming, too much to bear.
The flight was smooth and mercifully uneventful.
Tatum slept most of the way, her small body curled against mine, her head resting on my shoulder, her breath soft and rhythmic.
I stared out the window at the endless expanse of clouds stretching below us, white and pristine, trying not to think about what I was flying toward.
Tried to focus on the hum of the engines, the muffled conversations around us—anything but the reality waiting for us on the ground.
But the closer we got, the harder it became to ignore.
The knot in my stomach tightened with every passing mile, every minute that brought us nearer to a place I hadn’t seen in years, to memories I had worked so hard to bury.
Seven years.
As the engines roared beneath us, my mind drifted back to that night seven years ago when I’d left in the middle of the night with nothing but a duffel bag and a broken heart.
After that, I built a whole life for myself and my daughter in San Francisco—a career, a home, a future for Tatum.
I convinced myself I’d never have to go back.
Yet here I was, thirty thousand feet above, heading straight into a past I had tried so hard to outrun.
What if the clubhouse was still there? What if I drove past it and saw bikes parked outside, heard music and laughter, saw men in leather cuts walking around like nothing had ever happened?
What if I saw him?
No. I shut that thought down immediately. Tatum stirred beside me, mumbling something in her sleep, and I brushed a stray curl from her cheek, grateful for the distraction.
John was dead. I saw the bodies. Heard the paramedic say most of the officers were gone. I stood outside that clubhouse and watched them wheel out the dead, and even if I hadn’t seen his face, I knew.
He was gone. He had to be. Because if he wasn’t, if he had somehow survived and never looked for me...
No. I couldn’t think about that.
The plane landed in Oklahoma City just after noon. As we made our way toward the rental car counter, Tatum tugged at my sleeve, excitement flickering in her eyes. “Can I help pick our car?” she asked.
I nodded, grateful for the grounding moment, and together we chose a sensible sedan—nothing flashy. We started the drive south to Lawton, the road stretching ahead, the past and present twisting together as the landscape changed.
Tatum chattered in the backseat, her excitement bubbling over despite the heaviness that lingered in the car. She pressed her face to the window, eyes wide. “Are there really wild horses out there?” she gasped, then bounced in her seat. “Will Grandpa David let me feed the cows? Or ride a pony?”
She paused, craning her neck, and whispered, “Do you think he’ll teach me to rope like in the rodeos?”
Her questions came rapid-fire, one after another, and I found myself smiling despite everything. “Is the ranch big? Like in the movies? Are there barns that smell like hay?”
I answered on autopilot, my hands tight on the steering wheel, my eyes fixed on the road ahead. “There aren’t wild horses—just Grandpa’s, but you can meet them. And yes, the barn smells like hay and old wood and leather.”
Despite everything that had happened last week, I couldn’t deny Tatum this adventure. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to face my father after so many years but seeing her so alive and curious almost made me believe it might be worth it.