"You can tell?"

"Women your age learn things."

"I'm fifty-eight."

"Exactly."

He laughed.

"You always this difficult?"

"Only when I'm right."

Jackson shook his head.

The sun sank lower.

They rode in silence.

Then Beatrice asked:

"How long have you been riding?"

"Forty years."

"Club?"

"Twenty."

"Family?"

"Had one."

"Had?"

"Diane died."

Beatrice went quiet.

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

"What happened?"

"Cancer."

"I'm sorry."

"Me too."

Beatrice understood the answer.

Sometimes there were stories that didn't need to be reopened.

They rode another fifteen minutes.

Then Jackson noticed something.

A black SUV appeared behind them.

It maintained the same distance.

He checked the mirror.

Again.

Still there.

"Beatrice."

"Yes?"

"Don't panic."

She immediately became alarmed.

"What?"

"Just stay calm."

The SUV moved closer.

Jackson changed lanes.

It changed lanes.

He accelerated.

It accelerated.

Beatrice felt his body stiffen.

"Who is that?"

"I don't know."

The SUV came closer.

Jackson took the next exit.

The SUV followed.

His instincts sharpened.

He had spent decades reading traffic.

Reading people.

Reading danger.

This wasn't coincidence.

He took another turn.

The SUV continued.

Then it suddenly stopped.

Jackson watched it in the mirror.

It didn't follow.

He slowed.

"Maybe we're fine," Beatrice said.

"Maybe."

But Jackson didn't believe it.

They reached Boulder City twenty minutes later.

The pharmacy was still open.

Beatrice climbed off the motorcycle.

Jackson steadied her.

"Careful."

"I'm not helpless."

"I didn't say you were."

She walked toward the entrance.

Then stopped.

She turned around.

"Jackson?"

"Yes?"

"Wait for me."

He nodded.

"I will."

Inside the pharmacy, Beatrice handed over the prescription.

The pharmacist frowned.

"Mrs. Holloway?"

"Yes."

"You haven't refilled this in a while."

"I know."

"Insurance?"

She shook her head.

"I'll pay cash."

The pharmacist looked at the price.

Beatrice's face fell.

"How much?"

"Four hundred and twenty dollars."

She slowly opened her purse.

She counted.

Two hundred.

Then thirty.

Then another twenty.

She had two hundred fifty dollars.

Jackson appeared beside her.

"How much?"

She shook her head.

"No."

"How much?"

"I said no."

The pharmacist looked uncomfortable.

Jackson placed his card on the counter.

"Run it."

Beatrice grabbed his wrist.

"I don't need you to buy my medicine."

"I know."

"Then don't."

Jackson looked at her.

"I'm not buying it."

"What?"

"I'm loaning you the money."

"Why?"

"Because you'll pay me back."

"I might not."

"Then I'll consider it a donation."

She stared at him.

"You don't know me."

"I know."

She looked at the pharmacist.

Then at Jackson.

Finally she whispered:

"Thank you."

Jackson paid.

They walked outside.

The sky had darkened.

But something else had changed.

The black SUV was parked across the street.

Jackson stopped.

Beatrice saw it.

Her face went pale.

"That's the same vehicle."

Jackson looked at her.

"You know them?"

"No."

"Then why are they following you?"

Beatrice said nothing.

Jackson's voice became firm.

"Beatrice."

She looked at him.

"I don't know."

"That's not the truth."

She swallowed.

"No."

"Tell me."

Her hands began trembling.

She reached into her bag.

Pulled out an envelope.

Inside was a photograph.

Jackson looked at it.

A younger Thomas Holloway.

Standing beside two men.

One of them was dead.

The other was still alive.

Jackson recognized him immediately.

He had seen his face on television.

A Nevada businessman.

A developer.

A man accused of corruption.

Beatrice whispered:

"Thomas discovered something nine years ago."

"What?"

"He found out someone was stealing money from the town."

Jackson looked at the SUV.

"How much?"

"Enough to kill for."

She handed him another photograph.

On the back was a handwritten message.

THOMAS DIDN'T DIE BY ACCIDENT.

Jackson stared at it.

Then looked at Beatrice.

"Who killed your husband?"

She whispered:

"I don't know."

Then the SUV started moving.

Jackson grabbed his helmet.

"Get on."

What Thomas Left Behind

They didn't return to Dusty Ridge immediately.

Jackson took a different road.

He stopped at a motel outside Boulder City.

The place was old but clean.

He checked them in under his own name.

Beatrice sat on a chair in the lobby while Jackson watched the parking lot.

"You're scaring me," she said.

"Good."

"That's not comforting."

"Fear keeps people alive."

She looked at him.

"You've said that before?"

"Probably."

They entered the room.

Jackson locked the door.

Then the windows.

Beatrice placed her medication on the table.

She took the first dose.

Within twenty minutes, the shaking in her hands began to ease.

She looked relieved.

Jackson sat across from her.

"Start talking."

Beatrice looked at the floor.

"Thomas owned the diner."

"I know."

"But he also did bookkeeping for several businesses in town."

"Nine years ago, he noticed money moving through accounts."

"Money from where?"

"County contracts."

Jackson frowned.

"Road repairs. Water projects. Construction."

"Who was stealing?"

"Thomas believed it was a group."

"Names?"

She pulled another envelope from her bag.

"I don't know all of them."

Jackson opened it.

Inside were names.

County officials.

Contractors.

A police officer.

A judge.

And one name circled twice.

Victor Kane.

Jackson recognized it.

"He's the developer."

Beatrice nodded.

"Thomas confronted him."

"What happened?"

"Three days later, Thomas died."

"Car accident?"

"They said his brakes failed."

Jackson looked at her.

"Did you believe it?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Thomas checked his own brakes."

Jackson stared at her.

"Before every ride?"

"Every single time."

She took a breath.

"He told me someone had been following him."

"Did you report it?"

"I tried."

"To whom?"

"The police."

"Who took the report?"

She hesitated.

Then whispered:

"Officer Daniel Cross."

Jackson looked at the list.

Daniel Cross.

There.

One of the names.

Jackson leaned back.

"Beatrice, why didn't you leave town?"

She looked surprised.

"Where would I go?"

"Anywhere."

"This is my home."

"Even after Thomas died?"

"Especially after."

Jackson understood.

People sometimes stayed in painful places because leaving felt like betraying the person they had lost.

"What happened today?" he asked.

"Someone came to the diner."

"When?"

"Three days ago."

"Who?"

"Two men."

"What did they want?"