Chapter 18
“Can you tell me how you knew Ralston Cupp?”
A police officer sits across from me, the room stark and empty, only a camera in the corner. He is middle-aged, already balding, but he has a friendly face and so far, he has been kind. I knew this was coming, after all, the explosion was on my farm.
Questions will be asked.
“My uncle passed away and left everything to me,” I say, as rehearsed. “I came into town to fix up the house and sell it. Honestly, I didn’t know anyone and Ralston came by, he told me that he could sort the cattle sales out for me and I agreed. I had no idea who he was.”
The officer nods, Peter, I think his name is.
I can’t remember what he told me.
My brain is an empty, screaming mess right now.
“Tell me how he managed to set up an entire meth lab in your barn.”
“I didn’t go down there,” I shrug, calmly.
“I know that sounds crazy, but the first day I arrived, I went in and a cow just about killed me. I wasn’t stepping foot down there again.
He told me he would fix the barn, the fences and then sell the cattle for me.
His men were in and out all day, and he had it locked up, but I didn’t question it. Why would I?”
“Did you know he was running an illegal business through your uncle’s books?”
“No. I didn’t. As I said, I came back to fix the place up. I hadn’t gotten into that side of things yet. I had only signed paperwork with the lawyer a couple of days before. She was going to send me everything.”
“Did you know Harper was working with him?”
I shake my head, my eyes burning. “Not until my brother got out of prison and told me everything. I didn’t...we were so close and she never told me.”
That’s not a lie.
She didn’t.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
At least he acknowledges that.
I offer him a weak smile.
“And the Fallen Sons MC?” he asks, almost gently. “What’s your connection?”
I let out a shaky sigh. “I know Knox. He was in a relationship with Harper until she died. She’s the only reason I know of the club. Beyond that—” I spread my hands, palms up, “I barely know them. They were helping me around the property, fixing things. That’s all.”
He taps his pen. “No other reason for them to be on your farm?”
“None,” I say, flinching at how hollow the word sounds. “They were just there to help me. Nothing else.”
He jots this down, mouth pinched, like he wants to say more but isn’t sure if I can take it. “And you never saw anyone from the club interact with Ralston or his men?”
“Never,” I answer.
He flips a page and rubs his forehead. “I can’t tell you much until the investigation is underway, but you should stay somewhere else for the time being. The farm’s a crime scene. No one goes back till we finish clean-up and forensics.”
I nod. The words sting, but I see the logic. “How—” I swallow, force my throat to work again. “How many people were there?”
He clears his throat. “The explosion did a number. I am not certain we will get a clear idea of how many men were there that day, there is very little left.”
The truth drops like a stone in my gut.
I try to thank him, but it comes out as a cough. He gives me a bottled water from the break room and shows me to the side exit, away from the main lobby, away from the cluster of bored reporters waiting for a story.
When I step outside, the sun is disappearing into dusk, painting the parking lot in orange and blue.
I walk a dozen shaky steps before I see the bike at the far end of the lot.
Knox leans against it, helmet tucked under one arm.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days, jaw dusted with stubble, grief lacing his features.
He pushes off the bike when he spots me, and I collapse into his waiting arms. Neither of us says anything.
We just stand there in the cooling air, holding on like if we let go, we’d drop straight through the concrete.
He runs a hand over my hair, presses his cheek to my forehead.
His chest shudders with a breath. “It’s over,” he murmurs. “That’s the last of it. It’s done.”
I want to believe him. I want to say yes, to let the whole nightmare slough off my shoulders and float away. But I am scared that somehow, it will come back. He pulls back, eyes scanning my face. “You good?”
My laugh is a wreck. “No, but I hope soon, I will be.” I lean in, hook my arms around his waist. “Just...don’t let go.”
He chuckles, broken and low. “Wouldn’t know how.”
Behind us, the world is sirens and traffic. In front of us, well, in front of us is whatever we want.
I swing onto the bike behind him. He passes me a helmet and I put it on. He guns the throttle, and for once, the engine’s rumble is the only sound I want. We ride into the twilight, leaving the town and the smoke and the pain behind us.
I don’t turn around, not even once.
As we hit the first hill, the farm is just a speck on the horizon—a smear of color on the edge of nowhere. Tomorrow there will be endless paperwork, questions, press, and maybe even more pain. But tonight, for just a mile or two, I let myself believe in escape.
Maybe Zane is somewhere out there, laughing at us.
Maybe, I hope, he’d be proud.
I squeeze Knox harder and close my eyes, and for the first time in days, my heart skips a beat for something other than fear. We speed into the night, the wind trying its best to shake us loose, but we hold on. Because that’s all we have left.
Holding on.
THE RUMBLE OF MOTORBIKES rattles my bones as I stare, tears streaming down my face, at the coffin. I know, as well as everyone else, that there is nothing in that coffin but Zane’s favorite things, something from each person in the club.
They still wanted a funeral.
They wanted his memory to be honored.
He would want that, too.
I can’t stop staring at it. It doesn’t look big enough to hold the pieces left of a man like Zane, even if there’s nothing inside but leather and metal and a handful of bad jokes written on napkins.
Sable stands closest to it, her face a mask, but I can tell it’s taking every last scrap of will not to jump forward and rip the lid off, just to see if some miracle happened—just to make sure.
Nia’s tucked into Talon’s side, and Mera’s next to Wolfe, her hand firmly curled in his.
It’s not even a real funeral, in the traditional sense. All the men wear their colors, a sea of leather that makes my heart stutter. It’s a sight I won’t forget for the rest of my life. There is something about it, something that is so intense and personal, nothing could ever compare.
The whole courtyard out front of the clubhouse is lined in bikes.
The line wraps around the building, every type and era, like a museum made of noise and chrome.
Even the grass has been trampled flat by boots, not a stiletto heel or polished dress shoe in sight.
The air is thick with exhaust and cigarettes and the faintest, impossible scent of gasoline.
I walk to the coffin, knees shaking, and lay the only thing I could think of, a small angel I got from a store in town, that I thought reminded me of his little girl, right up near the lid.
Sable lays a dented flask beside it. Wolfe tosses a single, bullet-cored ring in, the kind you buy at a gas station when you’re already drunk.
“For good luck,” he rasps, voice raw as gravel.
One by one, the men move forward, each with an offering. A lighter. A folded photo. A patch. Some of them try to hold it together, but most don’t. There’s no shame, here, in tears. It seems almost expected. The ones who aren’t crying, I’m pretty sure, just don’t have it left in them.
I hang behind the rest, arms folded around myself.
When Knox comes up next to me, he just stands in stark silence.
I think of all the funerals I ever went to, starched and polite, the air choked with flowers and carefully whispered apologies.
This is nothing like that. Here, grief isn’t a disease you catch; it’s the air you breathe.
The priest, or whatever this man they got in is, raises his hands for silence.
It takes a while—no one’s in a hurry to let go, not today—but eventually the crowd hushes.
“Zane never walked a straight line in his life,” the man calls out, voice echoing off steel and stone.
“He never pretended to, either. He belonged to this club, and this club belonged to him.” Heads nod in agreement, some of them hard, some of them with a resignation that hurts to look at.
“He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t always good.
But he loved you, each of you, with a fire that couldn’t be put out, and he died the way he lived—doing what mattered.
Protecting his family. Now, he is with his daughter for eternity. ”
Someone in the crowd lets out a howl. It echoes, and for a moment it’s like a pack of wolves, everyone raising their voices together, a hurricane of sound that makes every hair on my arms stand up.
Sable lifts her chin and screams, this ragged, vengeful sound, and then she starts to laugh, tears streaming down her face.
“Only Zane would think this was a good way to go,” Knox says, so low I barely catch it. “Couldn’t just die like a normal man, had to go out with a bang.”
Literally.
The women gather, almost instinctively, around the casket. I find myself holding hands with Sable and Mera, our fingers tangled so tightly it almost hurts. Nia joins us, her cheeks already raw from crying. We stand just behind the men, but not invisible. Not anymore.
“Club’s not going to be the same,” Mera says, voice hoarse.
I’ve only known them for a little while, but I feel closer to these women, right now, than anyone in my whole goddamn life.
I wonder if this is what it’s like to be part of something bigger.
To have people who would burn the world down if you asked them, and then build it back up, stronger, just because they could.
The men start their sendoff. There’s no hearse, no black limousines. The casket is loaded onto the sidecar of Wolfe’s Harley, and he guns the engine until the pipes are shrieking. Knox and the rest fall in behind, peeling out slow, every bike rolling in perfect, synchronized formation.
We watch them pull away, the noise making the windows rattle.
The girls and I stand there, motionless, feeling the wind catch in our hair.
The line of bikes snakes all the way down the street, and I can see heads poking out of windows, people lining the curbs, even a few flashes of phone cameras.
None of that matters. Zane gets his last ride, and everything else is just background noise.
When it’s over, and the last echo fades, I turn to Mera. “Tell me this is going to get easier?”
“Probably not,” she whispers, “but I just know he would be smiling big right now.”
I believe that.
We turn and make our way back inside, the clubhouse weirdly quiet. Mera gets us all coffee, and we just sit, taking it all in. In the stretch of silence, I realize I never actually thanked Zane. For giving me this. For not going quietly.
The story that started with me, alone and angry, hating this shitty town, ends here, surrounded by people who don’t know how to give up. I wish I could tell him that. I guess, maybe, I just did.
Later, when the sun is barely up and the world is soft and new again, Knox finds me on the porch, arms wrapped around my knees.
He brings an old, battered patch in his hand—Zane’s, the one they pulled off his jacket.
He presses it into my palm, closes my fingers around it. “Wolfe wanted you to have this.”
I turn it over, feel the rough texture of the stitching, the sharp edges of the lettering. “What do I do with it?”
“Whatever you want.” Knox leans back, stretches. “Hang it on your wall. Sleep with it under your pillow.” He grins, and for a second, I see the man I fell in love with. “Might scare away nightmares.”
I try, really try, to smile back, and this time it almost works.
“Do you think he’s okay?” I ask, so quietly I’m sure only the ghosts can hear.
Knox’s eyes stay on the horizon. “He’s better than okay. He’s free and with his daughter, that’s all he ever wanted.”
The sun keeps rising. The sky goes gold, then blue, then the world just keeps on turning, like it always does.
One foot forward, then another. Freedom doesn’t have to mean running away.
Sometimes it’s just standing still, arms open, letting grief and love crash through you until you don’t have to hold on so tight.
Sometimes it’s the family you pick, and the mess you make out of surviving.
I walk back inside, patch clutched in my hand, and know this: Zane would have loved this ending just as much as the ride.
Maybe more.