Robert stepped out of his car. "Get in the van, Dad. We're done playing games."
Arthur looked at Bear, then at Robert. He didn't say a word. He just let the transport driver help him into the back seat. The doors closed, and the van pulled away, Robert's sedan following closely behind.
The parking lot felt incredibly empty once they were gone.
Bear turned to his crew. "Mount up."
They walked to their bikes. Bear straddled a massive black cruiser. He looked over at me standing on the pavement. He didn't smile, but he gave me a single, respectful nod before kicking the engine to life. The roar of the exhaust rattled the diner windows.
I went back inside to clean up the table. The diner was quiet again. I gathered the empty coffee mugs and wiped down the vinyl seats. As I reached for the sugar shaker, my rag caught on something wedged between the wall and the table.
It was a piece of paper, folded twice. Robert must have dropped it when he snatched his briefcase.
I pulled it out and opened it.
It was a printed email. The subject line read: Accelerated Demolition Schedule - Covington Property.
I scanned the text. It was from an excavation company. The second paragraph made my chest tighten.
Robert, we can push the demolition up to this Saturday, but we need the signed power of attorney by Friday afternoon. The soil surveyors found high concentration chemical seepage near the old well line on the back acre. If the EPA catches wind of this before we pave it over and lay the warehouse foundation, you're looking at federal fines and a complete project shutdown. Get the old man's signature today.
I stared at the paper, the words blurring in front of my eyes. This wasn't about putting an old man in a nice facility. This wasn't about selling a house because it was too big.
Robert had poisoned his own father's land, and he was trying to erase the evidence before anyone found out.
I stood motionless in the diner, the crumpled email heavy in my hand. The hum of the refrigeration unit sounded incredibly loud in the empty room.
High concentration chemical seepage.
I read the words again, my thumb tracing the black ink. I thought back to the few conversations I’d had with Arthur over the past two years. He rarely complained, but a few months ago, he had mentioned that the well water at his property tasted like copper and rust. He said Martha’s prize-winning marigolds had all died in a single weekend, the stems turning black from the ground up. He thought it was just a bad frost.
Robert knew. Robert was rushing the power of attorney not to pay for Arthur’s care, but to bulldoze the evidence of whatever he had buried on that land.
The bell above the diner door chimed. A couple of regular customers walked in, taking a booth near the window. I quickly shoved the paper into my apron pocket, grabbed my order pad, and went back to work.
The rest of my shift was a blur. Every time I poured coffee or wiped a table, my mind raced. I had sworn off getting involved in family disputes. Six years ago, when I worked at a private elder care agency, I had noticed bruises on an elderly woman named Clara. I reported her son to the state. The son hired a massive legal team, painted me as a disgruntled employee looking for a payout, and threatened to sue the agency into bankruptcy. The agency fired me. Clara died six months later, isolated and alone. The guilt had driven me out of the profession entirely.
I couldn't do it again. I couldn't risk the legal threats, the humiliation, the crushing weight of failing someone who trusted me.
But as I clocked out at three in the afternoon, I felt the weight of the paper in my pocket. Arthur wasn't Clara. And this time, I wasn't entirely alone.
I drove straight to the address printed on the back of Bear’s leather cut. It led me to an industrial park on the edge of town. A massive corrugated metal building sat behind a chain-link fence. A wooden sign above the open bay doors read: Bear’s Custom Cycles.
I parked my rusted Honda and walked through the doors. The smell of gasoline, burning metal, and old leather washed over me. Slim was underneath a disassembled chopper, rap music playing quietly from a battered radio. Tank was at a workbench, polishing a chrome exhaust pipe.
Bear was sitting on a metal stool near the back office, entering numbers into a dusty laptop. He looked up when my shoes crunched on the concrete floor.
He didn't look surprised to see me. He closed the laptop and stood. "Waitress."
"My name is Maya," I said, my voice sounding much smaller in the cavernous garage than I wanted it to.
"I know," Bear said. He pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his thick hands. "What's wrong?"