Marcus didn't mince words.
“The deed is fabricated.”
Evelyn closed her eyes.
“So we can beat this?”
“Yes.”
Relief barely had time to reach her.
Then Marcus became serious.
“But Crane won't stop because we caught one lie.”
He was right.
The pressure increased.
Phone calls.
More notices.
Rumors around town.
People began whispering that Evelyn was difficult.
That she was behind on taxes.
That she was fighting development for no reason.
Then Crane visited Evelyn's longtime friend, Tom Burch.
He didn't threaten Tom directly.
He didn't have to.
He merely suggested that anyone helping Evelyn might discover how expensive legal complications could become.
Tom went straight to Evelyn.
“He's trying to isolate you.”
Evelyn leaned against the workbench.
“Is it working?”
Tom looked offended.
“No.”
Evelyn smiled faintly.
But neither of them realized how far Crane was willing to go.
Ashes
Two nights later, the garage burned.
Evelyn had gone inside early with a headache.
At 11:30 p.m., a deep thump shook the windows.
She ran outside.
Her heart stopped.
Roy's garage was engulfed in flames.
Fire tore through the roof.
The windows exploded.
Smoke rolled into the night sky.
Thirty years of tools.
Parts.
Customer vehicles.
Records.
Roy's workbench.
His shelves.
Everything disappeared into the fire.
Evelyn stood barefoot in her robe while firefighters fought to keep the flames from reaching the farmhouse.
She didn't cry.
She couldn't.
The fire chief approached her afterward.
“Mrs. Harper…”
Evelyn stared at the smoking ruins.
“This doesn't look accidental.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
Later, she sat alone at the kitchen table.
Smoke still clung to her clothes.
Her hands were shaking.
She called Marcus.
“They burned my garage.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you inside the house?”
“Yes.”
“Lock everything. I'm calling the sheriff and the Attorney General's office.”
Evelyn hung up.
A few minutes later, headlights appeared in the driveway.
She looked through the window.
Victor Crane.
He stepped out of his vehicle and walked toward the house.
Evelyn opened the door before he reached the porch.
He stopped beneath the porch light.
“I heard about the fire.”
“Get off my property.”
“I'm sorry for your loss.”
“Get off my property.”
His smile vanished.
“You are sixty-eight years old.”
Evelyn stared at him.
“You've lost your business. You're buried in legal problems. You're alone out here.”
He stepped closer.
“I'm offering you a clean exit.”
Evelyn moved to the edge of the porch.
“You want me to leave?”
Crane waited.
“Then you're going to have to drag me off this land yourself,” she said, “because I buried my husband here, and I'm not going anywhere.”
His eyes hardened.
“You cannot fight everyone.”
Evelyn thought about the card in her pocket.
Then she looked directly at him.
“I'm not alone anymore.”
She shut the door.
Then she called Ryder.
“He came here.”
Silence.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“He stood on your porch?”
“Yes.”
Ryder exhaled slowly.
“Evelyn, how many motorcycles can fit on your property?”
She blinked.
“What?”
“The lot. Field. Road frontage.”
“Maybe three acres altogether.”
“That'll work.”
“Ryder, what are you doing?”
His voice remained calm.
“You opened the door for six men.”
A pause.
“Tomorrow, we're opening one for you.”
Five Hundred and Twelve
At dawn, Evelyn heard thunder.
Not weather.
Engines.
She stepped onto the porch.
Headlights filled the highway.
At first she thought she was seeing things.
Then the first motorcycles turned into her driveway.
Two by two.
Then four.
Then eight.
Then dozens.
The line seemed endless.
More motorcycles appeared behind them.
Hundreds.
Evelyn gripped the porch railing.
Riders filled the road in both directions.
Some wore leather.
Some wore denim.
Some rode old motorcycles.
Others arrived on machines worth more than Evelyn's house.
But they all came for the same reason.
Ryder arrived first.
He stopped near the burned garage and removed his helmet.
Evelyn stared past him.
“How many?”
Ryder looked toward the highway.