The neon sign flickered.

The doors were locked.

Beatrice stood outside.

She hadn't been inside since the night Thomas died.

Her hand trembled.

Jackson stood beside her.

"You don't have to go in."

She looked at him.

"Yes, I do."

They entered.

The diner smelled the same.

Coffee.

Grease.

Old wood.

Memories.

Beatrice walked behind the counter.

She touched the register.

Then the wall.

Then the booth where Thomas used to sit every morning.

"He sat here."

Jackson waited.

"He always ordered black coffee."

She smiled.

"Sometimes he put too much sugar in it."

She wiped her eyes.

Then she noticed something.

A small scratch beneath the table.

Three letters.

B.E.A.

Her initials.

She crouched.

There was a loose floorboard.

Jackson lifted it.

Inside was a metal tube.

Beatrice opened it.

A letter.

She read.

"Bea, if you're reading this, then I failed to protect you."

Her hands shook.

"I need you to understand something. I didn't hide the truth because I didn't trust you. I hid it because I loved you too much to make you carry it."

She began crying.

Jackson looked away.

She continued.

"The people involved are powerful. But power only survives when good people decide they are too tired or too frightened to resist it."

Beatrice lowered the letter.

There was one final paragraph.

"If Jackson Reeves ever comes looking for you, trust him."

She stared.

Jackson said nothing.

"He knew you."

"I barely knew him."

"Maybe that's why."

Suddenly the front door opened.

Victor Kane entered.

He was older now.

His hair was gray.

His suit was perfect.

His eyes were cold.

Two men stood behind him.

Kane smiled.

"Beatrice."

She stepped forward.

"You killed my husband."

Kane shook his head.

"Your husband was weak."

"You killed him."

"He refused to cooperate."

"That isn't an answer."

Kane looked at Jackson.

"You've caused me a great deal of trouble."

Jackson shrugged.

"Comes with the beard."

Kane smiled.

"Do you know how many people have died because of men like you?"

Jackson's expression hardened.

"Not enough?"

Kane laughed.

Then he looked at Beatrice.

"Give me the letter."

"No."

"Give me the ledger."

"No."

"Then you're going to die."

Beatrice stepped forward.

"You've been threatening me for nine years."

Kane frowned.

"I'm still here."

He raised his weapon.

Then the diner lights came on.

Police surrounded the building.

Ramirez's voice came over a loudspeaker.

"Victor Kane, you're under arrest."

Kane looked around.

His face changed.

Jackson smiled.

"You should have checked the cameras."

Kane looked at Beatrice.

She smiled.

"I learned."

The two men with Kane surrendered.

Kane tried to escape through the kitchen.

Jackson tackled him.

They hit the floor.

Kane struggled.

"You don't know who you're fighting!"

Jackson pinned him.

"Actually, I do."

Kane looked into his eyes.

"You'll never understand."

Jackson leaned closer.

"No."

He smiled.

"But I understand enough."

Police arrested Kane.

The case lasted nearly a year.

There were trials.

Hearings.

Investigations.

Names were exposed.

Officials resigned.

Money was recovered.

Daniel Cross went to prison.

Ray Mercer testified.

And Thomas Holloway's death was officially declared a murder.

Beatrice received a letter from the state.

Her husband's name had been cleared.

She framed it.

But something else changed too.

Jackson stopped running.

He returned to Carson City.

He visited Diane's grave.

For the first time in six years, he stayed longer than five minutes.

He placed flowers beside her headstone.

"I kept my promise," he whispered.

Then he smiled.

"Eventually."

Can You Ride This?

One year later, the neon sign at Holloway's Rest had been replaced.

The diner was thriving.

Beatrice had repaired the old Harley.

Not perfectly.

But honestly.

She replaced the tires.

Rebuilt the carburetor.

Changed the fuel lines.

Installed a new battery.

Polished the chrome.

The rust remained in a few places.

She refused to remove it.

"It has history," she said.

Jackson stood beside her.

"Looks good."

"It runs."

"That's better."

Beatrice looked at him.

"Can you ride?"

Jackson smiled.

"You asked me that before."

"I know."

"And I said yes."

"You did."

She handed him a helmet.

"Then prove it."

Jackson laughed.

"You want to ride?"

"No."

She pointed toward the Harley.

"I want you to ride it."

Jackson looked at the motorcycle.

Then at Beatrice.

"You're serious."

"Very."

He climbed on.

The engine started immediately.

Deep.

Strong.

Alive.

Beatrice smiled.

Thomas would have loved it.

Jackson revved the engine.

Then he looked at her.

"Coming?"

She laughed.

"I'm seventy-one."

"Seventy-two."

"Don't remind me."

He held out his hand.

She took it.

Together, they climbed onto the motorcycle.

They left the diner.

The desert opened before them.

The same Highway 95.

The same copper sunset.

The same wind.

But everything was different.

Beatrice leaned against Jackson.

The motorcycle moved smoothly beneath them.

For the first time since Thomas died, she wasn't riding alone.

And for the first time since Diane died, Jackson wasn't running away.

They rode until the sun disappeared.

Then they stopped on a hill overlooking the desert.

Beatrice removed her helmet.

She looked toward the horizon.

"I miss him."

Jackson nodded.

"I miss her."

They stood beside each other.

Two people who had lost the people they loved.

Two people who had spent years carrying grief like a second skeleton.

Two people who had discovered that grief didn't disappear.

It simply became lighter when someone helped carry it.

Beatrice looked at the Harley.

"Thomas always said motorcycles were about freedom."

"He was right."

"I think he was wrong."

"How?"

She smiled.

"Motorcycles aren't about freedom."

Jackson looked at her.

"They're about having someone beside you when the road gets difficult."

Jackson smiled.

"Diane would have liked you."

"Thomas would have liked you."

"Probably."

Beatrice laughed.

They started the motorcycle again.

Before leaving, Beatrice looked at Jackson.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For stopping."

Jackson frowned.

"I stopped for fuel."

"No."

She shook her head.

"You stopped because you heard an old motorcycle coughing behind a diner."

Jackson smiled.

"Maybe."

"And because you couldn't walk away."

He looked toward the road.

"I almost did."

"But you didn't."