But beneath it came recognition.
Relief.
“You’re him,” she whispered.
Mason frowned.
“I’m who?”
“The wolf.”
His stomach tightened.
Before he could ask what she meant, she glanced toward the windows.
“You have to leave.”
Mason stared at her.
“What?”
“You have to leave.”
“Why?”
“All of you.”
Across the diner, Caleb stopped laughing.
Mason hadn't signaled him.
He didn't need to.
Men who had ridden together long enough developed their own language.
Caleb saw Mason's posture change.
Mason leaned forward slightly.
“Who’s coming?”
The girl opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
“You’re safe right now.”
She shook her head.
“No.”
“You’re inside a diner full of people.”
“That doesn't matter.”
“Why?”
“Because Darren gets mad.”
Mason's eyes hardened.
“Who's Darren?”
The girl's eyes filled with tears.
“Is he your dad?”
“No.”
“Family?”
“No.”
“Do you live with him?”
She looked at the floor.
“I don't want to.”
Mason glanced toward the counter.
Millie Carson was already watching.
Sixty-eight years old.
Four decades running the diner.
A woman who had thrown drunk men twice her size out through the front door.
Their eyes met.
Mason tapped one finger against the table.
Once.
Millie understood.
Her hand disappeared beneath the counter toward the telephone.
Mason looked back at the girl.
“Nobody here is going to make you go anywhere until we understand what’s happening.”
The girl's lower lip trembled.
“You don't understand.”
“Then help me.”
“He said if she tried to leave again—”
She stopped.
Mason waited.
The girl swallowed.
“He said he would make sure my mother never woke up.”
The room seemed to lose its noise.
Mason slowly stood.
Not quickly.
Not threateningly.
But the chair scraping across the floor was enough for several conversations to die.
“Where is your mother?”
The girl whispered one word.
“Home.”
“Where?”
She looked toward the door.
Then at the motorcycles outside.
Then at Mason.
“Please.”
“What?”
“Don't let him find me.”
Mason crouched slightly so his eyes were level with hers.
“You came here because you knew me?”
She nodded.
“How?”
The girl reached into the pocket of her shorts.
Her fingers pulled out a small object.
A photograph.
She unfolded it carefully.
Mason looked down.
His breath stopped.
The photograph showed a younger version of himself standing beside another man.
The man wore the same gray-wolf patch.
Mason knew him.
His name was Daniel Callahan.
His younger brother.
Dead for eleven years.
And standing between them in the photograph was a little girl.
A little girl Mason had never seen before.
But the resemblance was impossible to miss.
Mason's voice dropped to almost nothing.
“Where did you get this?”
The girl looked up.
“My mother gave it to me.”
“What's your name?”
This time, she answered.
“Emma.”
Mason stared at the photograph.
Then at Emma.
“What is your mother's name?”
The girl's answer struck him harder than any punch he'd taken in his life.
“Rachel Callahan.”
Mason stopped breathing.
Rachel.
His brother's wife.
A woman everyone had told him had died eleven years ago.
Emma squeezed the photograph.
“She's still alive.”
And somewhere outside the diner, an engine started.
The Man in the Black Truck
Mason didn't panic.
That was one of the things people misunderstood about him.
Silence wasn't emptiness.
Sometimes it was control.
He stood beside the booth and watched Emma.
Then he looked through the window.
A black pickup had just entered the gravel lot.
It moved slowly.
Too slowly.
The driver didn't park immediately.
Instead, the truck rolled past the motorcycles, turned around near the fuel pump, and stopped facing the diner.
Caleb saw it too.
His fork lowered.
Nadine's hand disappeared beneath the table.
The other riders stopped talking.
Thirty men had been laughing moments earlier.
Now every face had turned toward the window.
Mason didn't need to ask whether they understood.
They did.
“Emma,” he said quietly, “is that him?”
The girl didn't look.
She simply grabbed the edge of his vest.
“Yes.”
Mason's jaw tightened.
“Darren?”
A nod.
The black truck remained outside.
The engine continued running.
Millie stepped from behind the counter.
“Everybody stays seated,” she said.
Nobody argued.
That was one advantage of being in a diner owned by Millie Carson.
When Millie said something, even Caleb listened.
Mason moved Emma behind the booth.
“Stay here.”
“No.”
“You'll be safer.”
“He'll look for me.”
“Let him.”
Emma shook her head violently.
“He'll hurt you.”
Mason almost smiled.
“Kid, that's not exactly new.”
But Emma wasn't smiling.
“He doesn't fight fair.”
Mason's expression changed.
“Neither do I.”
The truck door opened.
A man stepped out.
Late thirties.
Tall.
Lean.
Dark baseball cap.
Gray work shirt.
He shut the door gently.
Then he looked directly at the diner.
No hesitation.
No confusion.
He knew exactly where he was.
Mason recognized the type immediately.
A man who didn't need to raise his voice because he expected the world to listen.
The stranger walked toward the entrance.
The bell above the door jingled.
Every head turned.
The man scanned the room.
Then his eyes found Mason.
For a moment, neither moved.
Finally, the man smiled.
“Afternoon.”
Mason didn't answer.
The man looked around.
“I'm looking for my niece.”
Emma pressed herself against the booth.
Mason saw it.
So did everyone else.
Millie stepped forward.
“This is a private establishment.”
The man smiled.
“I'm not here to cause trouble.”
Caleb snorted.
“Funny. You walked in looking like trouble.”
The man's eyes moved toward him.
Caleb's expression remained pleasant.
Mason raised one hand.
“Caleb.”
“I'm quiet.”
“You're about to be.”
Caleb closed his mouth.
The stranger looked back at Mason.