Chapter 3
I barely slept.
At six the next morning, Rebecca was standing in my kitchen holding two coffees and looking at me like she wanted to yell.
"You searched the attic without me."
"I searched half the attic."
"That's still searching."
"I couldn't sit around."
"You could have."
"No, I couldn't."
She handed me a coffee.
"You look terrible."
"I feel worse."
Lily was still asleep upstairs.
School wasn't happening that day.
Neither was work.
I had called my shop manager, Tank, and told him I needed time.
He didn't ask why.
He just said, "Family first."
That was how the club operated.
Something Charles would never understand.
Rebecca climbed the attic stairs behind me.
The attic was packed with everything I had been too weak to sort after Grace died.
Christmas decorations.
Lily's baby clothes.
Grace's nursing textbooks.
Boxes from our first apartment.
A broken lamp I kept promising to repair.
Then Rebecca saw it.
"Purple."
I turned.
A small purple storage box sat behind an old suitcase.
I stopped moving.
For two years, I had passed within feet of it without knowing it mattered.
Rebecca crouched.
"Do you want me to open it?"
"No."
I pulled it forward.
There was tape around the lid.
Grace's handwriting covered the top.
FOR BEAR.
ONLY IF CHARLES COMES BACK.
My knees almost gave out.
Rebecca whispered, "Oh my God."
I sat down hard.
For several seconds, I couldn't touch the tape.
Grace had known.
Whatever was happening now, she had expected it.
I peeled the tape away.
Inside were three folders.
A flash drive.
A small voice recorder.
Two sealed envelopes.
And a letter.
My name was written across the front.
Bear.
I opened it.
The first sentence destroyed me.
If you're reading this, my father finally decided grief wasn't enough punishment.
I covered my mouth.
Rebecca looked away.
I forced myself to continue.
Grace wrote that Charles had pressured her during treatment.
He wanted her to leave me.
He wanted Lily placed in a Whitmore family trust.
He said he could protect Lily from "my lifestyle."
Grace refused.
Then he threatened to challenge custody after her death.
My eyes burned.
She wrote that she'd started collecting proof because she didn't trust the lawyers around her father.
She also wrote something worse.
Adrian Pike had lied to her.
He told Grace certain documents were hospital consent forms.
Later, she discovered one contained language about guardianship.
She refused to sign anything else.
"Rebecca."
She moved closer.
I handed her the letter.
She read quickly.
Her face hardened.
"This changes everything."
"Keep reading."
Grace said she recorded two meetings.
One with Charles.
One with Dr. Pike.
The voice recorder sat inside the box.
My hands shook when I pressed play.
Static.
Then Grace's voice.
Weak.
Tired.
Alive.
"You're not taking my daughter."
I closed my eyes.
I hadn't heard her voice in months.
Charles answered.
"You aren't thinking clearly."
"I am thinking more clearly than I ever have."
"Grace, Duke Malone is not equipped to raise a child alone."
"He already raises her."
"He repairs motorcycles."
"He owns a company."
"He belongs to a gang."
"They're not a gang."
"Men with criminal records."
"So does half your executive board."
Rebecca looked at me.
I almost laughed.
That was Grace.
Even dying, she fought.
The recording continued.
Charles lowered his voice.
"If you won't amend the guardianship clause voluntarily, there are other options."
Grace replied immediately.
"Was that a threat?"
"It was advice."
"No. That was a threat."
The recording ended.
Rebecca stared at the recorder.
"That's gold."
I picked up the second file.
This one was Dr. Pike.
His voice sounded nervous.
"Mrs. Malone, the documents were prepared for your benefit."
"You told me they were treatment forms."
"They included treatment directives."
"And custody language."
"A precaution."
"Did my father pay you?"
Silence.
Then Pike said, "I think you should rest."
Grace laughed weakly.
"That's not an answer."
Another silence.
Then she said, "If anything happens to my paperwork, I made copies."
The recording stopped.
Rebecca was already opening the folders.
Inside were copies of medical records.
Emails.
Letters.
And a handwritten statement signed by one of Grace's nurses.
Rebecca looked at me.
"We can destroy the petition."
"No."
She paused.
"What?"
"I don't want to destroy it."
"What do you want?"
"I want to find out why Charles waited two years."
That question changed the room.
Rebecca leaned back.
"Good question."
"If he wanted Lily, why not come immediately?"
"Maybe he thought you'd fail."
"He could've filed anytime."
Rebecca nodded slowly.
"So something triggered this."
I grabbed the court petition again.
Charles was wealthy enough to hire investigators.
He knew where we lived.
He knew where Lily went to school.
He knew about the recital.
Why now?
Then Rebecca's phone rang.
She checked the screen.
"Courthouse."
She answered.
I watched her expression change.
"Yes."
Pause.
"When?"
Another pause.
"Who signed that?"
Her eyes met mine.
She ended the call.
"What?"
"The hearing moved."
"To when?"
"Tomorrow morning."
My stomach tightened.
"Why?"
"Charles's attorney claimed an urgent welfare concern."
"What concern?"
Rebecca looked furious.
"They submitted new evidence this morning."
"What evidence?"
"A photograph."
"Of what?"
She turned her phone toward me.
The image loaded.
I stared.
It showed Lily outside my motorcycle shop.
She was sitting on Tank's parked bike.
Around her stood five members of my club.
The photo made them look enormous.
Tattooed.
Leather vests.
Motorcycles everywhere.
In reality, they had been singing Happy Birthday.
But the photo had been cropped.
No cake.
No balloons.
No families.
No other children.
Just Lily surrounded by bikers.
Under the image was a caption from the court filing.
Minor child routinely exposed to violent motorcycle organization.
I felt anger rise.
Rebecca put a hand on my arm.
"Don't."
"He followed her."
"Probably."
"He photographed my kid."
"We're going to deal with it."
"How?"
"With evidence."
A voice came from the attic stairs.
"Bear?"
Tank.
I looked down.
He climbed into the attic.
"What are you doing here?"
"You weren't answering."
His eyes moved to the papers.
Then he saw the photograph.
His expression changed.
"Son of a—"
"Watch it."
"Lily's not here."
"Still."
He took the phone.
"I remember this."
"So do I."
"That was her birthday."
"I know."
Tank looked closer.
"Wait."
"What?"
He enlarged the image.
"That's not from last year."
"Yes, it is."
"No."
He pointed toward the corner.
At first, I didn't understand.
Then I saw it.
A motorcycle mirror.
Inside the reflection was a man holding a camera.
Gray suit.
Silver hair.
My chest went cold.
Charles.
Tank looked at me.
"Bear."
"I see him."
Rebecca took the phone.
Her eyes widened.
Charles hadn't hired somebody.
He had personally watched us.
That meant something.
Something bad.
Then the doorbell rang downstairs.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Tank moved first.
I followed.
When I opened the front door, nobody was there.
Just a package.
No return address.
Rebecca told me not to touch it.
Tank ignored her and carried it inside.
I opened it carefully.
Inside was another envelope.
And one photograph.
Grace.
Alive.
Sitting in a wheelchair outside the hospital.
Beside her stood Charles.
And a woman I didn't recognize.
May you like
On the back, someone had written one sentence.
ASK CHARLES WHAT HAPPENED TO GRACE'S REAL WILL.
