speak with the club’s board, tell him to go through the hundreds of different protocols that have been shoved down my throat on how any of us should deal with someone who’s not a member of the Terror.
But as he offers me the file, the sight of my mother’s name muzzles the voice. There’s silence in my head. A crazy, fucked-up silence. The type that can drive a guy insane.
“Open it,” he says. Mom said the same thing to me once. It was Christmas. The box was bigger than the other ones and it moved. Doubt I’ll find in this file, like I did with the box Mom gave me, a puppy inside.
I do open the file, and I trudge in slow motion for the porch as my eyes take in the typed words and the handwritten notes. With a flip of a page, I slump until my ass hits the top stair. It’s a picture of my mom. A hand over my face, then I focus once again on the picture—of her, of my mother.
“Where’d you get this?” I ask. It’s of Mom smiling. A real smile. The type where her eyes crinkled. I loved it when she smiled like that. It meant her mood wasn’t fake.
“Your dad gave it to the local police force...when she went missing.”
Went missing...
That night, Dad and the club had been out for hours searching, scouring for a trace. Dad left me with my surrogate grandmother, Olivia. My three best friends stayed with me at her place. I was ten and they watched me pet my puppy over and over again.
I crack my neck to the side to bring me back to the present—back to her picture. I resemble Mom. I’m more like Dad in build and height, but I have her blond hair and blue eyes. Problem is when I peer into the mirror, I don’t see the deep warming blue of her eyes. I see ice.
“Does the club ever discuss what happened that night?” From where the detective stands, he blocks the sun, so I can look up without squinting. “About what they saw?”
An uneasiness tenses my shoulder blades. “Why would they?”
He doesn’t answer. It’s apparent pages and photos are missing from the file. There’s a picture of Mom’s smashed-up car, but not one photo of her inside. A report that is mostly blacked out and a slew of papers that appear like they should go together, but pages two, five and seven through nine are absent.
“What’s this?” I show him a page full of gibberish. Numbers and letters in odd combinations spread like a crossword puzzle.
“I’m hoping that’s where you can help me. Several of those have come into our possession, and we have reason to believe it’s messages from within your club.”
The edge in his voice slices through my skin. Your club. There’s an insinuation there. One that causes a dark demon within me to stir. Your club.
“The Reign of Terror looked for your mother the night she went missing,” he says. “They reported a problem with her way before normal people would have known there was an issue. She left work, and a half hour later they were on full alert. Sound normal to you?”
“Sounds like they were concerned.”
A growling, disgruntled noise leaves his throat. “Sounds like they knew exactly what was going on. Especially since they were the ones who found her.”
The second part of his statement trips me up and causes me to pause on the word died in the middle of the page. They were the ones who found her. The club had kept me in the dark on that piece of information.
“I’ve been investigating the Reign of Terror for the past year. Longer than you’ve been a member. The club claims to be legit, but they protest too much. There are secrets in this club. You know this, and so do I.”
I’ve been a patched-in member for only a few months, but I’m a child of one of the club’s leading men. Dad’s the sergeant at arms. It’s his job to protect the club, to protect the president. You have to be a crazy MFer for that job. He’s insane enough to love the position.
I was born and raised in the Terror clubhouse. This bastard thinks he knows the club because he’s been “investigating” us. He knows nothing. He’s one more asshole attempting to destroy what he doesn’t understand.
“Aren’t you curious how your mother died?” he asks.
“It was an accident,” I snap.
“You believe it was an accident because you were told it was an accident.”
It’s better than the alternative—that Mom took her own life. I meet his stare, and we become statues as we carry on the eye showdown.
“I didn’t come here to get into a pissing contest with you. I’m here to help you,” he says like he’s my priest ready to grant absolution. “Maybe give you some peace.”
“Who says I’m torn up?”
“This involves your mother.” He allows a moment for his words to sink in and for my stomach to twist. “A boy never gets over losing his mother. Some things are universal. Black, white, poor, rich, college-educated to thug.”
I raise an eyebrow. I’m guessing I’m the thug.
“You’ve thought about your mother’s death. Maybe you’ve even been tormented. I’ve been on this case for a while, so I don’t come here lightly. I know what people say—that your mom killed herself—”
A storm of anger flares within me. “It was an accident.”
“It was no accident. I believe there’s one of two ways that night went down. There were no skid marks. Nothing to prove she tried to stop. Your mother either went off that bridge on purpose or she went off thinking going over was her better chance at survival.”
My throat tightens. She died. My mother died.
“I’ve talked to people. They say your mother was unhappy. That she had been unhappy for months. They say she was preparing to leave your father and she was going to take you with her.”
A strong wave of dread rushes through my blood, practically shaking my frame. “You’re full of shit.”
“Am I?” he asks. “People say your father worshipped you. That he wasn’t going to allow her to leave with you. Don’t you want to know how she died? Don’t you want to know if the people you claim as family were involved? If you work with me, we’ll find the answers you’ve been searching for.”
My cell buzzes in my pocket and the distraction breaks the tension between me and the cop. I pull it out and find a text from Chevy. I’m late meeting him and evidently he was worried: Pigpen and Man O’ War coming in strong.
“Do you hear that sound?” I say.
He’s got that lost expression going on. “What sound?”
The phone in the house rings and the welcome rumble of angry engines echoes in the distance. He turns toward the road and I beeline it into the house. Two seconds in, the file is open and I snap as many pictures as I can.
“Razor!” the guy shouts from the other side of the screen door. My back’s to him and he sure as shit won’t walk in without a warrant or probable
