Chapter 2 — Knox
She's been here two days, and I haven't said more than her name.
I've watched her, though. I'm not proud of it but I'm not pretending I haven't.
Yesterday morning she carried two bags of groceries from her car to the house, moving quickly like she wanted to be inside before I came out of the garage.
Her thighs in those denim shorts are thick and soft, the kind that would feel good under my hands.
Her hips are wide enough that the shorts sit low on them, showing a strip of pale skin above the waistband.
I keep working on the bike even though it doesn't need work.
This morning she takes the trash out in loose cotton pants and an oversized shirt that hides more than it shows.
I'm in the garage pretending to clean tools I cleaned three days ago, watching through the open door as she walks to the bin at the end of the driveway.
The shirt moves when she walks. I can see the shape of her beneath it. Full breasts, soft stomach, the curve of her hips.
She's fuller than she was at twenty-three and it does something to me that I don't have good words for.
I want to put my hands on her. Want to feel the weight of her body against mine. Want to know if her skin is as soft as it looks.
I haven't wanted anyone in over a decade, not even thought about it. Built a life that worked precisely because it didn't require me to want things I couldn't have.
Seeing her walk across a driveway in the heat makes me a liar.
She goes back inside without looking at the garage. The door closes.
I stand there with a wrench in my hand that I don't need and a pulse in my throat that won't slow down.
Francis has been next door for forty-eight hours and the lie is falling apart faster than I can hold it together.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, see Cain's name, and answer.
"Yeah."
"Two Marrow bikes on Route 9. Five miles outside town. Tate's heading out. You coming?"
I'm already moving toward my bike. "On my way."
"They're just riding. No stops yet."
"I'll be there in ten."
I hang up and pull on my cut, feeling the familiar weight of it settle across my shoulders. The Vigil patch on the back is worn smooth in places from years of wearing it. I swing my leg over the bike and kick it to life, the engine roaring loud enough that I see Francis's curtain move.
She's watching.
I don't look back. I pull out of the driveway and head east on Old Mill Road, opening the throttle once I'm clear of the residential streets.
The wind is hot and dry, doing nothing to cool the sweat gathering under my shirt. The fields on either side of the road are pale, the corn looking tired this late in the season.
I hit Route 9 and turn south. Six miles down I see Tate pulled off on the shoulder, his bike idling. I pull up beside him and cut my engine.
"Where are they?" I ask.
He nods ahead. "Quarter mile. Stopped at the gas station."
I can see it from here. Two bikes at the pumps. Two men standing beside them, one filling his tank while the other looks around with the kind of attention that isn't casual.
"They know we're here," Tate says.
"Good."
We wait. The heat sits on my shoulders like a hand pressing down. Sweat runs down my spine and soaks into the waistband of my jeans.
The man filling his tank finishes and caps it, then says something to his partner. They both look in our direction.
Then they mount up and pull out of the gas station, heading south away from Bloomfield.
Tate and I follow at a distance. Not close enough to crowd them but close enough that they know we're there.
They ride for two miles before turning east onto a county road that leads away from town. We stop at the turn and watch them disappear.
"They were probing," Tate says. "Testing response time."
"Yeah."
"Crane's getting bold."
I don't answer. We both know what it means.
Perry's death wasn't enough. Marrow is still pushing and they're not going to stop until someone makes them.
We ride back in silence.
By the time I pull into my driveway it's past noon and the sun is directly overhead, beating down without mercy. My shirt is soaked through, and my head is pounding from the heat and the adrenaline that's still moving through my system with nowhere to go.
I park the bike and go inside.
The house is dim and cool; the AC working hard enough to drop the temperature to something bearable. I strip off my cut and hang it on the hook by the door, then pull my shirt over my head and drop it on the floor.
In the bathroom, I turn on the shower and step under water that's cold enough to shock my system. I stand there until my heart rate slows, until the tension in my shoulders eases enough that I can think past the need to hit something.
Perry died three weeks ago. Shot outside his apartment at five in the morning while the rest of us were asleep.
He was alone. No one waiting for him. No one who noticed he was gone until Chuck did his morning check and found him bleeding out on the pavement.
I've been alone for seventeen years. Built it deliberately, maintained it, told myself it was what I wanted.
I think about Perry and I think about Francis next door and the lie gets harder to hold.
I get out of the shower and dry off, pulling on clean jeans and a black t-shirt. It's almost one.
I should eat something but my stomach is tight and food doesn't sound like anything I want.
I go back to the garage instead.
The bike doesn't need maintenance. The oil was changed last week, the chain is clean, and the tire pressure is good.
I do it anyway because sitting still isn't an option and I don't have anywhere else to be until church tomorrow night.
I'm under the bike checking the brake pads when I hear an engine turn over next door.
Once, twice, three times. The starter catches but the engine doesn't fire.
I wait.
Another attempt. Same result.
I walk to the edge of the garage. Francis is standing beside her car with the hood up, looking at the engine like it's going to explain itself if she stares long enough.
She's wearing jeans and a loose blue shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail and there's sweat on her neck, a damp patch between her shoulder blades.
I should go back to the bike. Should let her figure it out or call someone else.
I'm already walking across the driveway.
"Battery?" I ask.
She jumps, turning fast enough that she has to catch herself on the car's frame. When she sees me her whole body goes stiff, shoulders pulling back like she's bracing for impact.
"I don't know," she says. "It was fine yesterday."
"Try it again."
She gets in the driver's seat and turns the key. The starter grinds but the engine doesn't catch.
I lean over the engine bay and check the connections. The battery terminals are corroded, white and green buildup crusted around them thick enough that I can see it without looking hard.
"Battery's shot," I say. "Connections are corroded."
She gets out of the car and comes to stand beside me, close enough that I can smell her.
I want to put my mouth on her neck. Want to taste the sweat there, feel her pulse under my tongue.
"Can it be fixed?" she asks.
"I can clean the terminals. Might buy you a few days but you'll need a new battery soon."
"How much will that cost?"
"Hundred and twenty for the battery. I can put it in."
She's quiet for a moment, looking at the engine like she's deciding something. Then she says, "Okay. Thank you."
"I'll get my tools."
I go back to the garage and grab what I need.
When I return she's still standing by the car, arms crossed over her chest even though the heat is brutal and there's no reason to hold herself that way except that I'm here and she doesn't know what to do with me.
I get to work on the terminals, scraping away the corrosion and wiping them clean. She watches without saying anything.
"How long have you lived here?" she asks finally.
"Eight years."
"You bought the house."
It's not a question but I answer anyway. "Yeah."
Another silence. I finish the first terminal and move to the second.
"I didn't know you'd be here," she says. "When I rented the place. I didn't know."
"Your dad didn't tell you?"
"He didn't mention it."
I glance at her. She's looking at the ground, jaw tight, hands gripping her elbows hard enough that I can see the pressure in her fingers.
"Would it have mattered?" I ask.
"I don't know."
I finish the second terminal and straighten. "Try it now."
She gets back in the car and turns the key. This time the engine catches, rough but running.
She lets it idle for a moment, then puts it in reverse.
"That should hold for a few days," I say. "But get a new battery this week."
"I will. Thank you."
She's already backing out when I step forward.
"Francis!"
She stops, foot on the brake, window still down, but doesn't look at me.
"I wasn't waiting for you to come back," I say.
It's the truth. I bought this house because it was available and I needed somewhere to live. I didn't buy it hoping she'd show up next door seventeen years later.
But saying it out loud feels like a lie anyway because now that she is here, I can't pretend the last seventeen years haven't been shaped around her absence.
She sits there with the engine running, hands gripped tight on the steering wheel. For a second I think she's going to say something. Her mouth opens slightly, her eyes cut to mine through the mirror.
Then she puts the car in drive and pulls away.
I stand in the driveway with grease on my hands and watch her taillights disappear down the street.
My chest feels tight, my pulse too fast. I wipe my hands on my jeans and go back to the garage.