The Biker Told Her to Pretend He Was Her Father. By Sunrise, She Learned Why He Had Been Watching Her for Twenty-Four Years
Chapter One — Pretend
Sarah Mitchell knew something was wrong because the enormous man in booth six stopped drinking his coffee.
For forty minutes, he had sat alone beneath the fogged diner window, wearing a faded black leather vest over a charcoal shirt, his broad shoulders nearly filling one side of the booth. A weathered patch rested over his chest. Silver threaded through his beard. His knuckles carried pale scars that looked old enough to have stories attached to them.
He had ordered black coffee and eggs.
He had eaten the eggs.
He had not touched the coffee.
At six seventeen in the morning, Sarah walked toward him with the glass pot in her right hand.
“Warm-up?”
The man glanced toward the mirrored panel behind the pie display.
Then his eyes settled on hers.
His expression changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
He leaned forward.
Sarah instinctively leaned closer to hear him over the hiss of the griddle and the low country music coming from the ceiling speakers.
The stranger spoke quietly.
“You’re in trouble. Pretend I’m your dad.”
Sarah almost laughed.
“What?”
His hand closed gently around her wrist.
Not hard.
Not threatening.
Steady.
“Don’t turn around.”
Every muscle along Sarah’s spine tightened.
The coffee continued pouring until it reached the rim of his cup.
The stranger calmly moved the cup aside before it overflowed.
“Look at the mirror behind the pies.”
Sarah lifted her eyes.
Two men had just entered.
Both wore dark jackets despite the mild spring morning. One was tall and narrow-faced. The other had a shaved head and shoulders shaped like a refrigerator.
Neither looked at the waitress greeting them near the register.
They looked at Sarah.
The narrow-faced man slid one hand toward the inside of his jacket.
The larger man did the same.
Sarah’s grip tightened around the coffee pot.
The biker smiled suddenly.
It was so convincing that for half a second she almost forgot what he had said.
“Now laugh,” he murmured.
Sarah stared at him.
“Excuse me?”
“Like your embarrassing old father just told you something stupid.”
The two men were moving deeper into the diner.
Sarah forced out a laugh.
It sounded terrible.
Sharp.
Breathless.
Wrong.
But it was a laugh.
The biker chuckled louder and shook his head as though he had just delivered a familiar family joke.
“Good,” he whispered. “Order pad.”
Sarah pulled the small pad from her apron.
Her fingers trembled.
She pretended to write.
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know their names.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“I know who sent them.”
Her pen stopped.
The biker's eyes hardened.
“My name is Hank Reeves.”
Sarah’s gaze dropped briefly to his vest.
A motorcycle club insignia covered part of the leather. Beneath it sat another patch.
PRESIDENT.
Sarah swallowed.
Hank continued quietly.
“Those men have been watching you for four days.”
The diner seemed suddenly too bright.
Too open.
Too small.
“What?”
“Tuesday. Blue sedan across from your apartment. Wednesday, gray pickup outside the grocery store. Yesterday, the narrow one sat in this diner for two hours.”
Sarah stared.
“You’ve been watching me too?”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t make this better.”
“No.”
The men separated.
The shaved-head man stopped near the counter.
The other began walking toward booth six.
Hank’s eyes never left Sarah.
“Today they changed their pattern.”
“What does that mean?”
“They stopped observing.”
The narrow-faced man was twelve feet away.
Hank’s jaw tightened.
“It means somebody gave them permission to act.”
Sarah's heart slammed against her ribs.
She stepped backward.
Hank caught the coffee pot before it slipped from her hand.
“Listen carefully.”
“I’m calling the police.”
“You can.”
“Good.”
“But if the local department has the same problem it had twenty-four years ago, you’ll be telling the wrong person where you are.”
Sarah went still.
“Twenty-four years?”
Hank looked toward the approaching man.
Ten feet.
Then back at Sarah.
There was something strange in his face now.
Something beyond concern.
Something painfully personal.
Sarah whispered, “Why would anyone have been interested in me twenty-four years ago?”
Hank's expression seemed to age.
“Because that’s when your father d.i.e.d.”
Sarah stopped breathing.
“My father isn't dead.”
Hank said nothing.
“He left.”
Hank’s eyes remained on hers.
“My mother told me he left before I was born.”
The approaching man was eight feet away.
Hank lowered his voice even further.
“Your mother lied.”
Sarah's face drained.
“No.”
“She had reasons.”
“No.”
“Sarah—”
“How do you know my name?”
Hank looked toward the man behind her.
Then at Sarah again.
And what he said next shattered something that had existed inside her since childhood.
“Because I knew your father.”
The narrow-faced man reached the edge of the booth.
Hank rose.
He was even larger standing.
The stranger stopped.
Hank smiled pleasantly.
“Morning.”
The man looked past him toward Sarah.
“You her father?”
Sarah's mind went blank.
Hank didn't hesitate.
“Unfortunately.”
Sarah looked at him.
His expression told her everything.
Play along.
She swallowed.
“Dad, can you not embarrass me at work for five minutes?”
Hank grinned.
“No promises, kid.”
The narrow-faced man studied them.
Then looked toward the shaved-head man near the counter.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Hank reached into his wallet.
He placed thirty dollars on the table.
Then he put one hand briefly against Sarah’s shoulder.
A fatherly gesture.
Protective.
Casual.
“Walk toward the kitchen.”
Sarah didn’t move.
Hank kept smiling.
“Now.”
She turned.
Every instinct screamed at her to run.
Instead, she walked.
Past booth five.
Past the waitress station.
Past the swinging kitchen doors.
Behind her, she heard Hank speaking loudly.
“Forgot my jacket in the truck.”
Sarah pushed through the kitchen.
Jimmy, the cook, looked up from the griddle.
“You okay?”
“No.”
She kept going.
Through the storage room.
Toward the service door.
Her hand reached the handle.
Someone grabbed it from the other side.
Sarah gasped.
The door flew open.
Hank stood there.
“Move.”
They stepped into the alley.
Ten feet away sat a large black motorcycle.
The engine was already running.
Sarah stared.
“You expect me to get on that?”
“Yes.”
“I've never ridden a motorcycle.”
“Then today is educational.”
The kitchen door slammed open behind them.
Sarah turned.
The narrow-faced man appeared.
“Hank!”
Sarah looked sharply at the biker.
The man knew his name.
That frightened her more than anything else.
Hank shoved a helmet into her hands.
“Get on.”
She did.
The motorcycle surged forward.
Sarah wrapped her arms around Hank as the alley disappeared behind them.
She looked back once.
A black SUV turned into the alley.
The narrow-faced man climbed into the passenger side.
And suddenly Sarah understood something with terrible clarity.
Whatever had started twenty-four years ago had just found her.
Chapter Two — The Photograph
Hank drove like a man who had survived by understanding exactly how much risk he could take without crossing into stupidity.
He never raced blindly.
He calculated.
A yellow light.
A delivery truck turning left.
A narrow access road beside an office building.