Chapter 4
Jax reached inside the inner pocket of his black leather jacket. The movement was slow, deliberate, designed to give Clara plenty of time to react if she felt threatened. He pulled out a worn, leather-bound notebook with frayed edges and water-stained corners. It looked ancient, stuffed with folded receipts, handwritten maintenance logs, and newspaper clippings yellowed with age.
He slid the book across the smooth laminate counter. It stopped halfway between them, resting against the stainless-steel napkin holder.
"What is that?" Clara asked, eyeing the object as if it were a coiled snake.
"Your grandfather’s logbook," Jax said. "And after he passed, your old man’s logbook. They kept track of every mile, every debt, and every address where things went wrong. I found it in the bottom of that Reno motel dresser after the county coroner cleared the room."
Clara didn't touch it. She kept her hands planted firmly on the counter, her fingers curled over the edge. "Why are you giving this to me? I don't care about their miles. I care about the fact that I spent my tenth birthday in the back of a U-Haul truck outside of Boise."
"Because you think you're stuck here," Jax said, pointing a scarred finger toward the front window where the rain was blurring the neon sign. "You think this diner is your penance. You think running counter service and scrubbing grease traps is what you deserve because of the bloodline you drew."
"I stay here because nobody else is going to pay Uncle Ray's taxes," she snapped.
"Ray wouldn't want you chained to a cash register that only rings up bad memories," Jax replied, his tone firm, cutting through her defensive anger with surgical precision. "Open the book, Clara. Just turn to the last page. Read what your dad wrote the night before he checked into that hospital."
Clara hesitated. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. The rain outside seemed to quiet, replaced by the heavy, oppressive silence of a rural highway at dusk. She reached out with trembling fingers, her pale skin contrasting sharply with the dark leather of the notebook.
She lifted the cover. The paper crackled dryly, smelling of old tobacco and cheap ink. Her eyes scanned the hurried, slanting handwriting—handwriting that looked entirely too much like her own when she had to sign for inventory deliveries.
May you like
Tried to do right, the entry read, dated three days before his death. Gave her the only thing that couldn't be repossessed. Hope she looks at the stars tonight instead of the rearview.
Clara’s vision blurred. A single hot tear broke free from her lashes, tracking a clean line down her freckled cheek before dropping onto the page, darkening the ink into a permanent smudge.
