Chapter 6
Jax pulled a heavy manila envelope from the deep pocket of his motorcycle jacket and placed it directly over the open logbook. The envelope was thick, sealed with red wax bearing the impression of a notary’s stamp. It looked completely out of place against the greasy surface of the diner counter, like a formal death warrant delivered to a birthday party.
Clara looked down at the envelope, her fingers hovering inches above the paper. She didn't touch it. The temptation to reach out and pull it toward her was overwhelming, but caution held her back. In her world, free things always carried hidden interest rates.
"What's the catch?" she asked, her voice flat and guarded. "People like you and my dad don't hand over deeds to cabins in the mountains out of pure charity. There's always a lien, or a warrant, or a body buried under the floorboards."
Jax let out a short, humorless breath through his nose. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a pack of crushed cigarettes, tapped one out, and held it between his fingers without lighting it. Rules of the diner forbade smoking, and he knew it.
"No bodies," Jax said quietly. "Just memories. The cabin belonged to your grandfather before he lost it to the bank in ninety-two. I bought it back five years ago when I got out of the joint up north. I figured if I ever found the family, I'd give it back. Simple as that."
"Nothing about my family is simple," Clara retorted, her pale eyes locking onto his. "You know that better than anyone."
"True," Jax admitted, tapping the unlit cigarette against his thumb. "The title is already signed over in your name. All you have to do is take it down to the county courthouse in Bend and pay a twenty-dollar transfer fee. Or you can leave it right here on the counter when you close up tonight, and the trash collectors will haul it away with yesterday's napkins."
He stepped back from the stool, his heavy boots thudding against the linoleum. He didn't look like a savior; he looked like a weary traveler who had finally reached the end of a very long, very exhausting shift.
Clara looked from the manila envelope to Jax’s scarred face. She searched for any sign of a trick, a cruel joke, or a desperate trap, but she found only a profound, hollow exhaustion in his eyes.
"Why are you leaving?" she asked, realizing he was turning toward the heavy glass door. "You just got here."
May you like
"The road calls when it's time, kiddo," Jax said, his voice dropping back into that strange, haunting cadence of her father. "Some folks are meant to stay put and keep the lights on. Others are just meant to pass through so the ones behind them have a landmark."
He turned on his heel, pushing the door open. A rush of cold, wet air swept into the diner, carrying the smell of pine and wet asphalt.
