Cleaned it.
Serviced it.
Ridden thousands of miles.
Ethan could not have hidden something large.
Then memory arrived.
“The horn.”
Rebecca frowned.
“What?”
“He relocated it.”
“When?”
“Last rebuild.”
“Why?”
“Said stock position annoyed him.”
“That sounds like Ethan.”
Clara crouched beside the left engine guard.
The horn itself looked ordinary.
Behind it sat a handmade bracket.
Two bolts.
Then a third fastener positioned oddly.
She removed them.
The bracket came free.
Behind it was a plastic sleeve.
Clara stopped.
Rebecca exhaled.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
Coordinates.
And three words.
ASK NOLAN WHY.
Clara read them twice.
Rebecca looked confused.
“Nolan?”
Clara’s stomach turned.
“Nolan Briggs.”
“Who?”
“Deputy chief.”
Rebecca stared.
Clara continued.
“Ethan’s best friend since high school.”
“Oh.”
“He was first officer at the crash.”
Rebecca looked at the coordinates.
Then at Clara.
“Call him.”
Clara shook her head.
“You think?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if he’s involved, he’ll move.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“He’ll help.”
Clara found Nolan’s number.
He answered immediately.
“Clara?”
“Nolan.”
“Everything okay?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Somebody destroyed Ethan’s Road King.”
Silence.
Not concern first.
Silence.
Clara noticed.
Then:
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“You call county?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“State.”
Another silence.
“What’d they take?”
“Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“I found something.”
Rebecca watched her.
Nolan’s voice became careful.
“What?”
“Coordinates.”
Silence.
“And Ethan wrote your name.”
The line stayed silent long enough that Clara checked the screen.
“Nolan?”
“I’m here.”
“Why did Ethan write ‘Ask Nolan why’?”
Nolan breathed once.
Then said:
“Clara, you need to give whatever you found to police.”
“You are police.”
“Not me.”
Her chest tightened.
“What did you do?”
No answer.
“Nolan.”
His voice dropped.
“Don’t go to those coordinates.”
Then the call ended.
Clara stared.
Rebecca said:
“Now we know.”
“Know what?”
“He’s scared.”
“Of us?”
Rebecca looked toward the map.
“No.”
“Of whoever is already going there.”
The Quarry
The coordinates led to an abandoned limestone quarry twelve miles north of Benton Pass.
Clara hated the symmetry.
Near Ethan’s crash.
Near the place where five years of lies began.
Rebecca refused to drive directly there.
Instead, she contacted Marcus Webb, a retired state investigator who had worked with her years before.
He answered at eleven at night without complaint.
That told Clara something about Rebecca’s network.
People expected these calls.
Marcus listened.
Then said:
“Do not approach.”
Clara rolled her eyes.
Rebecca noticed.
“Don’t.”
“I’m fifty-two.”
“Danger does not care.”
“Neither do I.”
“That is not impressive.”
Marcus coordinated with state investigators quietly.
Meanwhile Nolan Briggs left his house.
One of Rebecca’s riders watched from two blocks away.
No confrontation.
He drove first to Morrow Recovery.
Stayed twelve minutes.
Then left.
Five minutes later Dale Morrow’s truck departed.
South.
Toward the quarry.
Rebecca looked at Clara.
“There.”
Clara felt sick.
“Nolan warned us.”
“Yes.”
“So he’s helping?”
“Maybe.”
“Or protecting himself.”
“Also maybe.”
They followed at a distance but stopped a mile from the quarry.
State units moved from another direction.
The plan was simple.
Watch.
Document.
Do not enter until legal authority existed.
Then Nolan’s cruiser appeared behind them.
Clara saw it in the mirror.
Rebecca cursed.
He stopped twenty yards back.
Exited.
No hat.
No raincoat.
Hand near his holster.
“Clara.”
She opened the door.
Rebecca grabbed her arm.
Clara pulled away.
“If he wanted to shoot us, the car door isn’t magic.”
Fair.
She stepped out.
“Nolan.”
He looked terrible.
“What are you doing here?”
“Following you.”
“Why?”
“You called Morrow.”
He stopped.
“How do you know?”
“Answer.”
Nolan looked toward the quarry lights below.
Then back.
“Pike told me to.”
Clara stared.
“Sheriff Pike?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He knows Rebecca is back.”
Rebecca stepped out.
“And?”
“He told me to stop you.”
“From what?”
“Finding what Ethan buried.”
Clara’s body went cold.
“You knew.”
Nolan closed his eyes.
“I knew enough.”
“How much?”
“Clara—”
“How much?”
His face broke.
“I changed the crash report.”
She stopped hearing the rain.
Rebecca whispered:
“Why?”
Nolan looked toward Clara.
“Pike said the brake-line damage came from the impact.”
“What brake-line damage?”
Nolan swallowed.
“The rear line was cut.”
Clara stared.
Not torn.
Not crushed.
Cut.
A scene technician photographed it before the motorcycle was moved.
Nolan saw the image.
Pike said the line could have been sliced by debris.
Nolan accepted the explanation.
At first.
Later, Nolan found a second photograph.
Tool marks.
Clean.
Deliberate.
He confronted Pike.
Pike told him reopening the case would expose evidence-handling problems, destroy careers and damage public trust.
Nolan stayed silent.
Clara walked toward him.
“You came to my house.”
“Yes.”
“You sat in my kitchen.”
“Yes.”
“You told me Ethan probably died instantly.”
Nolan’s eyes filled.
“Yes.”
Clara slapped him.
Hard.
Rebecca did not move.
Nolan did not defend himself.
Clara hit him again.
Then stopped.
Her hand hurt.
Nothing else changed.
“You coward.”
“Yes.”
Nolan nodded.
“Yes.”