CHAPTER 9
THE SPACE BETWEEN THEM
By Monday morning, I had convinced myself that the tire repair was insignificant.
It was a practical thing. A leaking tire, a rainy afternoon, a man who happened to know how to fix it.
Nothing more.
That was the explanation I repeated while brushing Maya’s hair, while packing her lunch, and while standing in the grocery aisle staring at the same box of cereal for nearly a minute.
Nia noticed, of course.
“You are thinking about him again.”
“I am thinking about cereal.”
“You have been holding the same box upside down.”
I looked down.
The ingredients were facing me.
I placed it in the cart.
“Happy?”
“Deeply.”
I ignored her and reached for the milk.
My phone vibrated inside my coat.
I already knew who it was before I checked.
ROMAN: DARIUS FOUND ANOTHER REFERENCE TO THE PROPERTY TRANSFER. MARA HAS THE DETAILS.
I stared at the message.
No personal question. No attempt to continue the conversation from the fundraiser. No mention of Maya.
Just information.
That should have made it easier to respond.
ME: I WILL SPEAK WITH MARA.
His reply came a moment later.
ROMAN: UNDERSTOOD.
I locked the phone.
Nia watched me from beside the cart.
“You know, most people simply answer a message.”
“I answered.”
“You answered like a government office.”
“Good. Governments have boundaries.”
She laughed, but I could not.
Because the truth was that I had noticed his restraint.
And I did not know what to do with that.
Mara called me after lunch.
“The new reference is connected to a transfer of development rights,” she said. “The document itself is incomplete, but the property number matches the earlier file.”
“Does it name Victor?”
“Not directly. It names a consulting firm associated with him.”
“Could he have arranged the transfer?”
“Possibly. We need to establish who authorized it and whether Iron Crown had any financial interest in the transaction.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“What does Roman say?”
“He has offered access to the club’s internal records.”
I closed my eyes.
“Has he?”
“Yes.”
“Without conditions?”
“So far.”
The phrase lingered.
So far.
It was the only honest way to describe anything involving Roman.
“Can I see the records at the garage?” I asked.
Mara hesitated. “You can, but I recommend we keep the review independent.”
“I agree.”
“Then have Roman send everything through me.”
I nodded, even though she could not see me.
After the call ended, I stood in the quiet kitchen and looked at the folder resting on the table.
I had come back to Detroit because I wanted answers.
But answers were beginning to create new questions.
What had Roman known?
What had he suspected?
And how much of the truth had he chosen not to see because seeing it would have required him to stand against the people who had given him power?
I did not have the luxury of avoiding those questions anymore.
Not if the evidence was still moving.
That evening, I went to Voss Custom Motorworks.
I told myself I was there because Mara needed one document clarified.
Not because I wanted to see Roman.
Not because some part of me was curious about the man who had crouched beside my car in the rain and asked permission before helping.
The garage doors were open when I arrived.
Inside, music played softly from a radio near the office. The smell of metal, rubber, and motor oil settled into the air. A mechanic worked beneath the hood of a truck while another organized tools along the wall.
Roman stood near the rear workbench, speaking with Darius.
He saw me before Darius did.
The conversation stopped.
“I need to clarify something,” I said.
Roman nodded. “All right.”
Darius glanced between us. “I will check the inventory.”
He walked toward the other side of the garage.
I appreciated the distance.
Roman wiped his hands with a cloth and waited.
“The development rights document,” I said. “Mara needs to know whether the property committee had authority to approve that kind of transfer.”
“It depended on the agreement.”
“Can you find the original agreement?”
“I already requested it.”
“From whom?”
“The club’s records administrator.”
“Not the former treasurer?”
“No.”
I studied him. “And if the administrator refuses?”
“Then Mara can make a formal request through the appropriate legal process.”
His answer was controlled.
Reasonable.
I hated how much easier it was to speak with him when he did not behave like the man I remembered.
“Did you always know how to answer questions without giving orders?” I asked.
His eyes shifted toward me.
“No.”
“At least you are honest.”
“I learned that giving orders does not make people trust you.”
I folded my arms. “You learned that recently?”
“I am still learning it.”
The admission disarmed me.
I looked away, toward the rows of motorcycles lined along the far wall.
Their chrome surfaces reflected the overhead lights.
Once, I had loved the sound of Roman’s bike arriving outside my apartment.
I had loved the way he removed his helmet and searched for me before he even stepped through the door.
Now, the memory felt like something borrowed from another woman’s life.
Roman spoke carefully.
“I wanted to ask you about the fundraiser.”
My shoulders tightened. “Why?”
“You seemed uncomfortable when I spoke to Maya.”
“I was.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“I know you do not want me near her.”
“That is not what I said.”
“No. But it is what you asked for.”
I looked at him.
He did not appear offended.
That made me more uncomfortable than anger would have.
“Maya is not part of this investigation,” I said.
“I know.”
“She is not evidence. She is not leverage. She is not a way for you to get closer to me.”
“I know.”
“Then do not ask about her.”
“I will not.”
The words were simple, but the silence afterward felt different.
I had expected resistance.
I had prepared for an argument.
Instead, he had accepted the boundary without trying to negotiate.
I shifted my weight.
“You can ask me about the documents.”
“I can.”
“You cannot ask me to explain my life.”
His gaze remained steady. “Understood.”
“And you cannot act like helping me means you have earned something.”
“I have not.”
I looked at him more closely.
“What do you think you have earned?”
“Nothing.”
The answer came without hesitation.
My chest tightened.
Roman looked down at the cloth in his hand.
“I know what I did,” he said. “And I know fixing the investigation does not fix that.”
I wanted to tell him that he was right.
I wanted to tell him that he had no idea how deeply his silence had affected me.
Instead, I asked, “Why did you help with the tire?”
He looked up.
“Because it was leaking.”
“That is all?”
“That is all.”
I let out a slow breath.
“Most things with you have never been that simple.”
“I know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I do not have a better answer.”
The honesty irritated me.
It also made it difficult to attack him.
I glanced toward the garage entrance.
Rain clouds had gathered above the street, turning the afternoon light gray.
Roman stepped aside as I moved toward the door.
“Amara.”
I stopped.
“If you need anything repaired, you can bring it here.”
I turned.
“That sounds like a favor.”
“It is an offer.”
“What is the difference?”
“You decide whether you want it.”
I studied him for a long moment.
Then I shook my head.
“I will remember that.”
He nodded.
I left before the conversation could become more intimate than I was ready to handle.
Outside, the air smelled of rain and gasoline.
I walked to my car, but I did not start the engine immediately.
Roman had not touched me.
He had not demanded anything.
He had not used the investigation as an excuse to pull me closer.
And somehow, that left me thinking about him more than I wanted.
That night, Maya sat beside me on the sofa while I helped her color a picture of a family.
There were four figures on the page.
A mother.
A child.
A dog.
And a tall person with dark hair.
“Who is that?” I asked.
Maya pressed her purple crayon harder against the paper.
“That is the person who brings things.”
“What things?”
“Boxes. And the loud machine.”
I went still.
“Is that the biker?”
She nodded.
“Why did you draw him?”
“Because he helped our car.”
I looked at the picture.
The figure had no face, only a dark circle where the head should have been.
Maya tilted her head. “Can he be in the picture?”
I swallowed.
“People can be in pictures if you want them there.”
She returned to coloring.
I stared at the page, unable to stop the questions gathering in my mind.
What would happen when Maya learned who Roman was?
What would happen when Roman learned that the child he had never known existed had already met him?
I had spent four years protecting my daughter from a man I believed would choose power over us.
Now he was showing me small, inconvenient signs that he might be capable of choosing differently.
Small signs were not proof.
They were not forgiveness.
They were not a second chance.
But they were enough to make the space between us feel less certain than it had before.
Maya leaned against my side.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
“Are you sad?”
I looked down at her.
“Sometimes.”
“Why?”
I brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead.
“Because some things take a long time to fix.”
She thought about that.
“Like the car?”
A small laugh escaped me.
“Exactly like the car.”
She rested her head against my shoulder.
I held her close, watching the purple crayon move across the page.
Outside, the first drops of rain began tapping against the window.
And somewhere across Detroit, Roman was probably surrounded by metal, old records, and the consequences of choices he could no longer hide from.
For the first time, I wondered whether the man I had loved was gone forever.
Or whether he had been there all along, buried beneath the crown he had spent years protecting.