Page 47 of Scatter the Bones

Job. Focus. Be present. These people are here to celebrate Mr. Hall’s life. They deserve my full attention.

My gaze lands on Abby, seated in a corner near her father’s customized casket. Shiny black lacquer with silver hardware that catches the light streaming in from the windows. The engraved Wolf Knights MC emblem we rush-ordered and added to the casket matches perfectly.

Abby’s curled into herself, hands clenched around a crumpled tissue, mascara smeared under her eyes. Alone, in a room full of men who called her father “brother.”

Why the hell is she sitting alone?

I grab a fresh box of tissues and thread through the crowd. Leather cuts brush against my arms. Heavy boots thud dully over carpet. Low murmurs. A cough. A stifled sob. And somewhere outside, the constant rumble of Harleys, coming and going.

“Hey,” I say softly.

Abby jerks upright like she’s just remembered where she is.

I crouch beside her, offer the tissues. She grabs a handful without meeting my eyes.

“Thanks,” she whispers, voice raw.

I drag a chair closer to her and sit. “Do you need anything? Water? Coffee?”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m fine.” She pauses, then reaches out and takes my hand. Her grip surprises me—tight, needy. “Thank you for everything. I must’ve driven you crazy with all my calls and texts this week.”

“Not at all,” I say. “It’s what I’m here for.”

She gives me a watery smile that slips almost as fast as it appears. Her gaze flicks up and scans the room. Every direction. Not at anyone in particular. Just...the crowd.

And then the smile dies altogether. “Never get involved with a biker, Margot.”

Pain squeezes my throat. “I’m sorry?”

She laughs, bitter and sharp. “The club always comes first. No matter what.”

Now we’re treading into awkward territory. I have dozens of responses memorized for grieving loved ones. For this, I have nothing. It hits too close to home. Is that where Jigsaw’s been, doing something for his club? Wrath didn’t say that when I spoke to him, but why would he? I’m just the girlfriend of one of his brothers, not someone he’d share club matters with.

Unless they’re asking me to cremate someone for the club.

No. I push that thought away. The club’s business arrangement with my father and my relationship with Jigsaw have nothing to do with each other.

“I’m sorry it must’ve felt that way at times,” I finally say, then wince. That sounded patronizing.

“Oh, trust me.” Her eyes narrow, meeting mine. “It is.”

“It must be hard having so many people from the club here, then,” I whisper, feeling like a traitor since Ulfric paid all the bills but not wanting to ignore Abby’s feelings.

“Yes and no.” Her gaze darts around the room, and lands on Ulfric standing in a group of men—one I recognize as Rock, the president of the upstate Lost Kings, his son Teller, and a wiry, craggy-looking older man who looks like he rode through a tornado without stopping to be here.

“Ulfric was like an uncle to me when I was little. He was always nice. My father’s responsible for his own choices.” A faint smile ghosts her lips. “He and my dad owned a drive-in theater when I was a kid. It was one of my favorite places to be in the summers. I have a lot of happy memories there.” The smile slides off her face. “But when my mom had enough of his cheating and divorced him, she moved us across the country, and I never really saw him much after that. She didn’t want my brother joining the MC too, so she got us as far away as she could.”

“Did your brother join them?” I don’t even think her brother showed up for the funeral.

“God, no.” She sighs and sits up straighter. “My dad could’ve had visitation with us in the summers, but he only bothered once. Having us around during ‘riding season’ was an inconvenience, you know?”

So much of Abby’s bitterness makes sense now.

“He moved to be closer to me, recently. He wanted to get to know my kids but never wanted to really discuss the past. Own up to it. Apologize. Nothing.” She lets out a strained laugh. “Like, how dare I harbor some resentment about him abandoning me for all those years.”

This isn’t our first client or even the hundredth whose grief rubs against their unprocessed abandonment issues. It’s still hard to think of an appropriate response.

“It’s hard for some people to own up to their mistakes.” That seems like the safest thing to say. “They’d rather pretend it didn’t happen and move on. That doesn’t mean you’re required to do the same.”

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