Page 101 of Beautiful Ruins
I couldn’t shake the sense that what Logan had witnessed back then—whatever was about to play out on the screen—might have been the reason he was no longer with me.
My head spun, demanding answers I couldn’t begin to fathom.
What the fuck had my brother gotten himself into? And what did Patricia have to do with it? Had I been right all along, and Logan had been working for the club? Following Sadie’s mum? For Iron? For our old man? Fucking who?
The questions landed hard—sharp, final.
Everyone had been lying to me. My stomach twisted with all of it. But worst of all was that the truth was staring me straight in the face.
All the evidence was right there, every pixel pointing to Logan and the shit he’d managed to bury himself under.
I braced myself, knowing that whatever was on the damn USB, I had to see it through to the end. I dropped back into the chair and scrubbed my hands over my face, like I was preparing myself for the blow that was about to obliterate me.
The rumble of bikes grew louder on the video. That sound had always meant freedom to me. For my brother, it had been a death sentence.
As the steady revs of the bikes’ engines came to a grinding halt, Patricia and her lover exchanged looks, their panic almost palpable, even through the screen. They moved quickly, pulling themselves together, adjusting their clothing and appearances. Clearly their visitors were unexpected.
My focus stayed glued to the screen, the ground beneath me tilting and shifting until all that surrounded me was Patricia’s fear and the sound of my brother’s heavy breathing.
Disembodied voices blended together, but Logan’s breathing cut through it all—jagged, shallow, like he couldn’t suck in enough air.
I could barely see past my fear, my panic. All I wanted to do was reach through the fucking screen and pull my brother free, to wrap him in my arms and tell him how sorry I was I hadn’t been there for him when he needed me the most. This was my version of hell, but it was only then I realised I’d been burning right alongside the secrets this town had been adding as fuel.
The crunch of gravel under boots echoed through the speakers, growing louder by the second. Then two menappeared, hovering at the edge of the screen. Ridge Riders patches. My fucking club. My family.
What the hell had they been doing there? Still, their faces remained vague. Men from my father’s time, not mine.
Patricia tensed, and the man with her did, too. He barely shielded her, the cut on his back unworthy of such a spineless bastard. If he loved her—truly loved her—he’d have made sure she was less of a target than he was. Yet, he used Patricia as his own personal bodyguard.
She stepped forward, hand outstretched and trembling as she handed an envelope to one of the Riders. He snatched it from her with a grunt and handed it off to someone else off screen.
“This it?” That voice—rough, cocky, familiar. Fucking Iron.
The camera shifted again, the image blurring as Logan had moved into a better position. But what I would have liked was for him not to have been there at all.
The voices remained muffled, but Logan’s breath wasn’t. It came out in ragged bursts as he hid in his spot, witnessing everything that was unseen outside the scope of the camera.
Another figure stepped into view then. Snake. Of course he had been there with that wild, unhinged glint in his eye. A younger version of the crazed arsehole I knew all too well. A fourth stepped in, right at the video’s edge. But I saw enough of him to know who it was.
Troy Knight—my fucking father.
The entire thing was turning into a goddamn family reunion, only without the love.
Even from behind the camera, Logan’s shock was palpable. “Shit,” he mumbled, his voice low, trembling. “Dad? What—what the hell is he doing here?”
The camera zoomed in just as Snake pulled a gun out from under his leather cut and held it to Patricia’s head.
Jesus fucking Christ. That was how she’d died. The car accident had been a front, a cover up to keep the Ridge Riders on top, and everyone else fearing their wrath. The same as it had always been.
On screen, Patricia threw her hands up, the shock and fear on her face undeniable, even in the dim light of the bulb flickering overhead. “Please,” she said, shaking her head wildly, the desperation in her voice slicing me open. “I’ll stop. I’ll stop investigating.”
Stifling heat burned through me. There was nothing left inside me but smoke. My breathing ramped up, but I couldn’t look away as the screen glowed in the darkness of my office.
I owed it to Patricia—to Logan—to see this through.
Iron stepped forward, his face cutting through the haze of the video. “This isn’t about that.” He sniffed. “Well . . . not really.” My lungs seized up. Logan must’ve felt that same sense of panic back then, watching from where he was, knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing about any of it. “A little birdie told us you’d be here tonight.” He motioned for someone off screen. “Come on out, John.”
John? John Cooper?
