Unknown number.
ONE WARNING WASN’T ENOUGH.
Clara stopped breathing.
“Why didn’t you give this to police?”
“I did.”
“Then?”
“The detective said it could be spam.”
“Who?”
Rebecca hesitated.
“Lieutenant Warren Pike.”
Clara knew him.
He was sheriff now.
The county had elected him two years earlier.
Something inside her went cold.
“You think Pike is involved.”
“I think he stopped questions.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
Rebecca looked at the Harley.
“Which is why I didn’t accuse him.”
Clara’s anger returned.
“And the lighter?”
Rebecca reached for it.
Clara did not give it.
“Explain first.”
Rebecca nodded.
“The lighter belonged to my brother, Ryan.”
“R.S.”
“Ryan Sloan.”
Clara had never known.
“He was killed in Iraq. I carried it after.”
“Then why did Ethan have it?”
Rebecca’s face softened.
“Because I gave it to him.”
“When?”
“Three months before he died.”
“Why?”
“It opened something.”
Clara stared.
“A lighter opened something?”
Rebecca reached for the base.
“Not the flame.”
She turned a tiny screw.
The lower plate slid half an inch.
Inside was a narrow brass key.
Maggie whispered:
“Well, damn.”
Clara looked at Rebecca.
“You’re telling me somebody left your hidden key beside Ethan’s motorcycle.”
“Yes.”
“What does it open?”
“A private storage box Ethan rented under another name.”
Clara almost laughed at the absurdity.
“Where?”
“Old train depot.”
Maggie said:
“That place closed years ago.”
“Storage units behind it didn’t.”
Clara looked at the five riders.
“Why are they here?”
Rebecca answered:
“People I trust.”
“Club?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Former investigators. Mechanics. Riders.”
“Why bikes?”
“Fast communication. People don’t pay attention to riders stopping for gas.”
Clara stared at her.
“You built your own network.”
“I kept friends.”
Clara looked at the ruined Road King.
“And the people who trashed this?”
“Probably searching.”
“For what?”
“The storage receipt.”
“On the bike?”
Rebecca nodded.
“Ethan told me if anything happened, he’d hide the access information somewhere tied to something nobody would sell.”
Clara looked at the Harley.
“Me.”
“Exactly.”
Clara became furious again.
“He used me.”
“No.”
“He hid evidence in my life without telling me.”
“Yes.”
“That put me at risk.”
“Yes.”
Rebecca did not defend Ethan.
That somehow made the anger easier to hold.
Clara said:
“Where would he hide it?”
“I don’t know.”
They examined the bike only after police photographed the damage.
Clara called county dispatch herself.
Not Sheriff Pike.
State police.
Rebecca insisted.
The troopers treated vandalism seriously but did not yet know the larger story.
Clara withheld the investigation details.
For now.
A tow truck moved the Road King to Clara’s garage.
The five riders followed at a distance.
Rebecca rode with Clara.
At home, they placed the bike beneath bright lights.
Search damage became obvious.
Saddlebags opened.
Seat removed and replaced poorly.
Side cover scratched.
Tool roll disturbed.
“They knew where to look,” Rebecca said.
“But not exactly.”
Clara ran her fingers along the tank.
Ethan had built hidden compartments into motorcycles before.
Small document tubes.
Emergency cash slots.
But the Road King?
She thought.
Then remembered.
“The horn.”
Rebecca looked confused.
“What?”
“Ethan hated the stock horn.”
“Everybody does.”
“He relocated it.”
Clara crouched.
Behind the left engine guard sat a custom bracket.
Old.
Dirty.
She removed two bolts.
Nothing.
Then another.
A thin aluminum plate came free.
Behind it, sealed in plastic, was a small folded paper.
Rebecca stopped breathing.
Clara opened it.
Not a list.
A handwritten set of coordinates.
And three words:
ASK NOLAN WHY.
Rebecca’s face changed.
“Who’s Nolan?”
Clara stared at her.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
Clara did.
Deputy Chief Nolan Briggs.
Ethan’s childhood friend.
A man who spoke at Ethan’s funeral.
A man who told Clara the crash had been quick.
A man who hugged her beside the coffin and said:
“He didn’t suffer.”
Rebecca whispered:
“Clara.”
Clara folded the paper.
“Nolan was first officer on the scene.”
And suddenly the circle around Ethan’s death became much smaller.
The coordinates led to an abandoned quarry.
Of course they did.
Clara almost laughed when Rebecca entered them into her phone.
“Couldn’t be a bank.”
Rebecca smiled faintly.
“Ethan hated paperwork.”
“Could’ve been a coffee shop.”
“Too public.”
“Normal people use safe-deposit boxes.”
“Your husband built motorcycle compartments.”
“Fair.”
They did not go immediately.
That was Rebecca’s rule.
“Whoever searched the Harley may expect us to move.”
Clara hated waiting.
But waiting allowed planning.
Rebecca contacted two people.
Marcus Webb, a retired state investigator.
And Nolan Briggs.
Clara stared when she heard the name.
“You’re calling him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because we need to know how he reacts.”
Rebecca placed the phone on speaker.
Nolan answered cheerfully.
“Rebecca Sloan. Didn’t know you were still alive.”
Rebecca’s face did not change.
“Good to hear you too.”
“What do you want?”
“Ethan Whitmore.”
Silence.
Not long.
Long enough.
Nolan’s voice cooled.
“What about him?”
“Somebody vandalized Clara’s Harley tonight.”
Another pause.
“Clara okay?”
“Yes.”
“What’s that got to do with Ethan?”
“They left my lighter.”
Nolan said nothing.
Rebecca continued.
“You remember the lighter?”
“No.”
Lie.
Clara heard it.
Not because she knew Nolan’s normal speech patterns well enough.
Because he answered too quickly.
Rebecca said:
“We found coordinates.”
Nolan’s breathing changed.
Tiny.
Then:
“You should turn everything over to police.”
“We are.”
“Good.”
“State police.”
Silence.
Nolan replied:
“County can handle vandalism.”
“This isn’t vandalism.”
“What is it?”
“You tell me.”
Nolan laughed.
“That’s dramatic.”
Rebecca ended the call.
Clara stared.
“He knows.”
“Yes.”
“Enough to be scared.”
“Yes.”
“Then why call him?”
“Now he moves.”
“And we watch.”
Clara did not like being part of surveillance.
She liked uncertainty less.
Rebecca’s rider network positioned people near Nolan’s house, county offices, and Morrow Recovery.