For the first time that evening, Megan almost smiled.
Then Danny approached.
The boy looked at Clay's motorcycle.
"Are you really a biker?"
Clay glanced at the leather vest.
"Last time I checked."
Danny wiped his nose with his sleeve.
"My dad had a motorcycle."
Megan looked down.
"He did?"
Clay asked.
Danny nodded.
"Mom made him sell it when I was born."
Despite everything, Megan laughed softly.
"Your father nearly killed himself on that ridiculous thing."
"He said he'd buy another one someday."
The laughter vanished.
Danny looked toward the driveway.
"He didn't get to."
Clay understood.
He crouched beside him.
"Sounds like he loved you more than the bike."
Danny considered that.
"Yeah."
Clay looked toward Megan.
"We should call the police."
She nodded.
Then she hesitated.
"The box."
Clay looked toward the darkened house.
"You know exactly where it is?"
"Yes."
"Then don't touch it."
"But if Thomas comes back—"
"He won't get near it."
"How can you know?"
Clay looked toward the road.
Because in the distance, headlights were appearing.
Not one vehicle.
Several.
Megan stood.
"Is that Thomas?"
Clay narrowed his eyes.
"No."
The vehicles came closer.
Three motorcycles.
Their engines rolled through the evening like distant thunder.
Danny's eyes widened.
The motorcycles turned into the driveway.
Three bikers pulled up behind Clay's cruiser.
The first removed his helmet.
His name was Wade.
He worked beside Clay at the repair shop.
"You texted 'need help,'" Wade said. "Figured that meant now."
Clay smiled slightly.
"It did."
The other two riders dismounted.
Megan looked uncertain.
Clay reassured her.
"They're friends."
Wade glanced toward the house.
"Problem?"
"Long story."
"Police coming?"
"About to call."
Wade nodded.
"Then we'll wait."
No speeches.
No threats.
No questions.
They simply stayed.
And for the first time all evening, Megan seemed to believe that she and Danny weren't alone.
The police arrived twenty minutes later.
Then another patrol car.
Then, unexpectedly, a black sedan.
Clay recognized it immediately.
He hadn't seen that car in years.
The driver's door opened.
An elderly man stepped out.
Silver hair.
Dark suit.
Straight posture despite his seventy-two years.
Richard Mercer.
Clay's father.
Clay stared at him.
"You didn't have to come."
Richard looked toward Megan and Danny.
"Yes, I did."
Father and son stood facing one another beneath the porch light.
Nine years separated them.
Neither knew how to cross the distance.
So Richard did what he'd always done when emotion became too complicated.
He focused on work.
"Mrs. Vale?"
Megan stood.
"Yes?"
"I'm Richard Mercer. I represented your husband."
Megan's eyes widened.
"Mr. Mercer?"
Richard nodded.
"Arthur spoke about you constantly."
Megan's face crumpled.
Richard softened.
"He loved you and Danny very much."
"Then you know about the trust?"
"I created it."
"And Thomas?"
Richard's expression hardened.
"I know enough."
Megan looked toward the house.