Page 85 of Property of Tacoma
As everyone files out of the room, I remain seated, staring at the gavel in front of me.
For the first time in my life, I find myself praying.
Not to God—I gave up on him a long time ago.
I beg the universe and whatever dark forces might be listening, that my son makes it through this.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Standing outside a warehouse in Grand Bay, Alabama, I watch Benny and Bobby load what I think is the last body into their van.
My hands are still shaking.
Not from nerves or anything like that, but from exhaustion.
Eight bodies.
Each one had to be wrapped in heavy plastic because they were so severely mangled that they were unrecognizable as human remains.
Whoever dealt with them has some serious anger issues.
That’s not my problem, though.
I don’t ask questions about the what and why.
I don’t want to know.
“That the last one?” I call out, wiping my hands on a microfiber rag even though I’ve been wearing gloves this whole time.
Some habits die hard.
“Yeah,” Benny grunts, slamming the van doors shut.
Bobby turns to me, his face creased with concern. “You headed home?”
I shrug, the question hitting harder than it should.
Home.
Where the hell is that even at anymore?
I thought I’d found it.
Thought the small beach town with my biker and his amazing kids was going to be my home.
But I was wrong.
So fucking wrong.
Bobby’s face softens. “It’ll all work out how it’s supposed to.”
I’m not so sure, but I force a smile and nod anyway.
They don’t need to worry about me.
I always land on my feet. And this time won’t be any different.
“We’ll catch you on the flip side,” Benny says, climbing into the passenger seat and waving two fingers out the window.
