The woman who had known her almost her entire life had walked away because standing beside Liz had suddenly become dangerous.
Jacob remained near the table.
He still held the two hundred and seventeen dollars.
“Take it,” he said.
Liz shook her head.
“Please.”
“No.”
“Liz—”
She stopped.
He had heard Clara say her name.
For the first time, the massive biker looked less intimidating and more helpless.
“You don’t understand,” Liz said quietly.
“Then help me understand.”
She looked around the restaurant.
At the empty tables.
At the photographs on the wall.
At the kitchen where her mother had spent most of her life.
Then she whispered:
“It might be one of the last days I ever cook here.”
Jacob said nothing.
Liz turned toward the kitchen.
“Sit down.”
“Ma’am, I can’t possibly eat while—”
“Please.”
Jacob slowly sat.
Liz tied her apron tighter.
Then she began cooking.
Fried chicken.
Collard greens.
Candied yams.
Sweet potato pie.
Her mother’s recipe.
Her grandmother’s recipe.
A recipe older than Liz herself.
When she placed the food in front of Jacob, he stared at the plate.
“This smells incredible.”
“Four generations,” Liz said.
Jacob took a bite.
Then he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, they were wet.
“My grandmother used to cook chicken like this.”
Liz smiled sadly.
“She would probably be happy to know.”
Jacob finished every bite.
When he stood to leave, the two hundred and seventeen dollars remained beneath the salt shaker.
Liz sighed.
“Jacob—”
“Keep it.”
“I told you—”
“I know.”
He paused at the door.
“That man was wrong about you.”
Liz looked at him.
“You’re not a traitor. You’re the most loyal person I’ve ever met.”
Then Jacob stepped outside.
His motorcycle started.
And the sound faded into Memphis traffic.
Liz looked at the money.
Two hundred and seventeen dollars.
Against twelve thousand eight hundred.
It felt hopeless.
She did not know that ninety miles away, Jacob was about to walk into a warehouse filled with people who would refuse to let her fight alone.
The Steel Pilgrims
The warehouse outside Tupelo smelled of motor oil, leather, and cheap coffee.
Fifty-three members of the Steel Pilgrims Motorcycle Club had gathered for their weekly meeting.
At the front stood Marcus “Hammer” Williams.
Sixty-two years old.