Chapter 3
The rain outside picked up rhythm, drumming a frantic tattoo against the corrugated tin roof of the diner. A stray gust of wind rattled the back service door, making the metal latch chatter in its frame. Inside, the artificial warmth of the propane heater fought a losing battle against the damp chill seeping through the floorboards.
Clara pulled her black apron tighter around her waist, tying the strings into a double knot. She walked slowly down the length of the counter, stopping three stools away from where Jax sat. She didn't want to stand too close to him; proximity made the resemblance too sharp, too painful to ignore.
"If you're going to do this," Clara said, her voice steadying as she adopted a neutral, professional stance, "you have to get the voice right. He didn't gravel his words like you do. He talked soft. Like he was always trying to keep a sleeping dog from waking up."
Jax let out a dry, humorless chuckle. He shifted his weight, pulling his shoulders back and lowering his chin. When he spoke next, the raspy edge in his throat seemed to smooth out, replaced by a low, melodic cadence that sent a cold shiver straight down Clara's spine.
"You always did squint when the sun hit the windshield, Clara," Jax said, his tone shifting with terrifying accuracy. "I told your mother we should've tinted those windows before we crossed the state line."
Clara gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth. She took an involuntary step backward, her heel catching the edge of the rubber mat. For a terrifying second, the fifty-year-old biker with the scarred face and the Harley jacket vanished, replaced by a ghost from a dusty Ford bench seat in the summer of 1998.
"Don't," she whispered, shaking her head. "Don't do that."
"That's how he started every trip," Jax continued, ignoring her protest, his eyes softening into a look of heavy, paternal exhaustion. "Every time we packed up in the middle of the night because the rent was due or the sheriff was asking questions. He’d look over at you in the passenger seat, half-asleep against the door panel, and he’d blame the sun."
"It wasn't the sun," Clara said, her voice trembling as the walls of the diner seemed to close in around her. "It was the headlights. Every time we pulled into a new town, the headlights from the cruiser were shining right through the motel window before we even unpacked our bags."
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"He tried to keep you out of the crosshairs, kiddo," Jax said softly, leaning his forearms against the counter. "He was a fool, but he believed he was running toward something better for you."
"He was running away from himself," Clara shot back, the control slipping from her grasp. "And he left the dust behind for me to choke on."
