Chapter 2: Shadows of the Past
Martha’s eyes darted from the young boy’s face to the hardened features of the biker sitting beside her. She had known Jax for ten years—a man of few words, loyal to his motorcycle club, quick with a heavy wrench, but fiercely guarded. She had never seen him look paralyzed. She set the coffee pot down with a soft metallic click, her professional demeanor melting into genuine maternal concern.
"Who sent you here, kid?" Martha asked gently, leaning her weight against the counter.
"Nobody sent me," Leo replied, his hazel eyes fixed steadily on Jax. "Mom stayed in the hills till the end. She kept this picture in her Bible. She told me if the road ever brought me close to Oakhaven, I should find the man with the crow tattoo on his right forearm. She said he’d know what the words on the paper mean."
Jax’s arm twitched instinctively. His right sleeve was rolled up just enough to expose the edges of inked black feathers stretching over his wrist. He pulled the fabric down with a sudden, sharp jerk, his dark eyes finally locking onto the boy. The resemblance was terrifying. The shape of the nose, the pale skin that refused to tan despite years under the sun, and above all, the intense, searching gaze. It was a mirror reflecting a ghost he had tried to outrun across three different states.
"Your mother’s name," Jax said, his voice raspy and dry.
"Clara," Leo answered without hesitation. "Clara Vance."
The name hit Jax like a physical blow. The noise in the diner seemed to recede into a distant, muffled hum. Clara Vance—a girl from the valley he had loved with a fierce, reckless desperation before the prison sentence, the club wars, and the bitter midnight exile tore his life apart. He had truly believed she had aborted the pregnancy, believing it was the only way to save her from the violent fallout of his old life. She had let him walk away believing the slate was clean.
"She passed away three weeks ago," Leo added quietly, his lower lip trembling for a fraction of a second before he forced it still. "The landlord took the trailer. I took my jacket, the picture, and the note."
May you like
Jax stared at the folded paper resting beside his coffee cup. The ink was faded, written in Clara’s looping, hurried cursive. He knew every stroke of that handwriting. It was a relic from a life he had murdered in cold blood to protect the people in it. Now, the past had crawled out of the grave, wearing oversized sneakers and holding out an olive branch made of paper.
***
