“So you made him the villain.”

Martin nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

Emily looked at him.

“I needed a father.”

Martin wiped his face.

“I know.”

“No. I don’t think you do.”

She stood.

“Because you were the closest thing I had.”

Martin broke then.

Not loudly.

He simply sank into a chair and covered his face.

Emily did not forgive him that night.

Forgiveness was not a door.

It was a road.

And some roads took a long time.

The next morning, twenty motorcycles arrived outside Martin’s house at nine o’clock.

Denise nearly dropped a coffee mug.

Emily stepped onto the porch.

Jack handed her a helmet.

“What’s this?”

“Graduation present.”

“I don’t own a motorcycle.”

“Smartest thing you’ve said all week.”

Emily smiled.

Bear stood beside a beautiful old motorcycle painted deep blue.

There was an empty passenger seat.

“Where are we going?”

Bear looked toward Jack.

Jack nodded.

“Blackstone Curve.”

Emily’s smile disappeared.

Thirty minutes later, the Iron Lanterns parked along the highway.

Wildflowers moved in the morning wind.

Far below, a river flashed between pine trees.

Emily followed Bear down the embankment.

A small metal cross stood beneath a cottonwood.

CALEB ROWAN
1985–2002
SON. BROTHER. FRIEND.

Emily calculated quickly.

“He was seventeen?”

Bear shook his head.

“Dates on the memorial are wrong.”

Emily stared.

“What?”

Jack frowned.

Bear crouched beside the cross.

“Caleb was twenty-four.”

“Then why—”

Bear suddenly pulled the metal marker from the earth.

It wasn’t a memorial.

It was a marker placed years later.

Beneath it was a weatherproof cylinder.

Emily looked at him.

“What is this?”

Bear’s expression was confused.

“I don’t know.”

He unscrewed the cap.

Inside was a plastic bag.

Inside the bag was an envelope.

Bear went completely white.

The handwriting across the front read:

FOR MY DAUGHTER, EMILY.

Nobody moved.

Jack whispered, “What the hell?”

Emily’s pulse thundered.

“That’s impossible.”

Bear examined it.

“This is Caleb’s handwriting.”

“How could he know where he would die?”

“He couldn’t.”

Emily opened the envelope.

Inside was a letter.

And a photograph.

The photograph showed Caleb standing beside his motorcycle.

On the back someone had written a date.

Three days before his death.

Emily unfolded the letter.

Her hands began shaking before she reached the second sentence.

Emily,

If Bear gives you this, then Sarah was right about your name.

Emily looked up sharply.

Bear was crying.

She continued.

I know this sounds strange. Your mother thinks I’m being dramatic, but something is wrong with my motorcycle.

Jack moved closer.

Emily read faster.

The rear brake line was cut yesterday.

Silence fell across Blackstone Curve.

I replaced it and told nobody except Sarah.