Her smile faded.

“Your uncle’s parking?”

Emily hesitated.

“He got held up.”

Natalie understood immediately.

“Oh.”

“It’s okay.”

“Emily—”

“It’s fine.”

Natalie looked as though she wanted to hug her, but the faculty coordinator clapped twice.

“All graduates in line! Alphabetical order!”

Students moved.

Emily took her place.

Hart.

Near the middle.

The orchestra began playing.

The curtain opened.

And Emily walked onto the stage beneath hundreds of lights while applause rolled over the auditorium.

She kept her eyes straight ahead.

Because if she looked at that empty seat again, she knew she might cry.

Three months earlier, Emily Hart had been riding an old bicycle home from the public library when she saw a motorcycle lying on its side beside Highway 16.

Most people drove past.

Emily counted seven vehicles.

A pickup slowed.

Then continued.

An SUV moved into the other lane.

A delivery van never even touched its brakes.

The motorcycle had gone through a patch of loose gravel near Blackstone Curve before tearing across the shoulder and disappearing into a shallow ditch.

Emily stopped.

For half a second, fear told her to keep moving.

Then she saw the man.

He was trying to sit up.

And failing.

Emily dropped her bicycle.

“Sir!”

The biker turned toward her.

He was enormous.

Broad shoulders, gray-black beard, weathered face, leather vest.

Blood ran from his forehead.

One trouser leg was torn open at the knee.

His motorcycle—a black Indian touring bike—rested several yards away.

“I’m okay,” he grunted.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Been worse.”

“You might have a concussion.”

That made him blink.

“You a doctor?”

“No.”

“Paramedic?”

“No.”

He looked at her school backpack.

“High school?”

“Junior.”

The biker stared at her.

Emily pulled out her phone.

“I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No ambulance.”

“Yes, ambulance.”

“Kid—”

“You just asked if I was a doctor. Since I’m not, I’m calling people who are.”

Despite the blood dripping down his temple, the biker laughed.

“Fair enough.”

Emily called 911.

Then she climbed carefully down the embankment.

A torn saddlebag had opened during the crash. Its contents were scattered through the weeds—gloves, a flashlight, papers, a small tool pouch, an old photograph, a metal flask, and several personal items.

“Don’t move,” Emily told him.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I mean it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Emily gathered everything she could find while waiting for the ambulance.

One object glittered several feet from the motorcycle.

She pushed aside wet grass.

It was a strange silver pendant attached to a broken chain.

Half of a sun.

Or perhaps half of a compass.

The edges were tarnished almost black.

Emily rubbed the dirt from it.

Something about the shape bothered her.