The truck pulled into a gravel lot. A neon sign buzzed overhead, the red letters flickering against the rain: Ayers Garage & Ink.

Hoyt killed the engine. The silence in the cab was sudden and heavy.

He turned to Eva. "Stay close to me. Don't touch anything."

They exited the truck. Eva stepped onto the gravel, the stones crunching under her sneakers. The air smelled of oil, rain, and a faint, metallic scent that reminded her of blood.

Hoyt unlocked a metal side door and ushered her inside.

The garage was vast. It was a cavern of concrete and steel. Motorcycles in various stages of repair were scattered around on lifts. Tools lined the walls in organized chaos. Rock music played from a speaker in the corner, low and gritty.

Eva looked around, her eyes wide. Hoyt led her past the bikes to a cleaner office area enclosed in glass. He pointed to a worn leather chair.

"Sit."

Eva sat, clutching her knees to her chest.

Hoyt walked to a mini-fridge in the corner. He grabbed a bottle of water, cracked the seal, and handed it to her.

Eva took it and drank greedily, the cool water soothing her parched throat.

Hoyt leaned against a heavy metal desk, crossing his ankles. As he did, his canvas jacket shifted, and for a fraction of a second, Eva saw it. Tucked into a holster on his belt, pressed against his lower back, was the black grip of a handgun. Her breath hitched. The memory of guards at the estate, the guns they carried, the threat of violence that always hovered over Kingsley's world-it all came rushing back.

Hoyt noticed her gaze drop. He saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, the way her body tensed. He instinctively straightened up, his jacket falling back into place, concealing the weapon.

"It's for snakes," he said, his voice flat. "We get water moccasins from the creek. Nasty bastards."

Eva looked at him. She didn't believe him. You didn't need a semi-automatic pistol for snakes. But she nodded anyway.

He watched her drink.

"Mrs. Rose is your... what?" he asked.

Eva lowered the bottle. She typed on her phone: Grandmother.

Hoyt raised an eyebrow. "Nana? Nana never mentioned a granddaughter. She talks about her cat more than she talks about people."

Eva looked down at her lap. Shame colored her cheeks. Of course Nana didn't talk about her. Eva was the secret. The shame. The daughter of the woman who ran away.

Hoyt watched her reaction. He saw the shame. He realized there was a family secret here, a deep, ugly wound.

He decided not to pry. Not yet.

Voices echoed from the bay area outside the office. The heavy roll-up door was opening.

"Hoyt! You in here?" a voice yelled.

Hoyt straightened up. "Stay here," he told Eva. But it was too late. Two men walked into the office.

The door swung open.

Jax walked in first. He was lanky, covered in grease and tattoos, with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. Behind him was Tubby, a large man with a thick beard, holding a pink donut box.

They stopped dead when they saw Eva curled up in the chair.

Jax whistled low. A slow grin spread across his face. "Well, well. Who's the little bird?"

Eva shrank back into the leather, wishing she could disappear.

Hoyt stepped between them. He moved with a fluid, threatening grace, blocking their view of Eva completely.

"Back off, Jax," Hoyt warned.

Jax laughed, leaning to the side to get a better look. "Boss's Lady? Finally? Did hell freeze over?"

Tubby stepped forward, opening the box. "She looks hungry. Want a glazed, sweetheart?"

Hoyt slapped the donut box away. He didn't hit it hard, just enough to close the lid with a snap.

"She's not my lady," Hoyt said, his voice dropping an octave. "She's a client. And she's a kid."

"We fix bikes, Hoyt, not girls," Jax quipped.

Hoyt turned on him. His eyes were cold, dead things. "Enough."

The single word sucked the air out of the room. The playful atmosphere evaporated instantly. Jax's grin vanished. He knew that tone. That was the tone Hoyt used right before he broke someone's jaw.

"Alright, Boss," Jax muttered, holding up his hands in surrender. "My bad."

Hoyt turned back to Eva. His expression softened slightly, though his eyes remained alert.

"Ignore them," he said. He gestured for her to stand. "We're going across the street. Mrs. Rose should be prepping the stand by now."

Eva stood up. Her legs were trembling, partly from exhaustion, partly from the tension in the room.

Tubby leaned toward Jax and whispered, loud enough for Eva to hear, "Is she mute?"

Hoyt shot Tubby a look that could peel paint. Tubby clamped his mouth shut.

Hoyt placed a hand on the small of Eva's back-not touching, just hovering, a shield of heat. He guided her past the men. Eva could feel the protection radiating from him. He was a wall between her and the world.

They walked out of the shop and into the drizzle. The rain had slowed to a steady mist.

"He's whipped," Jax said as the door closed behind them.

"He's terrified," Skeeter, a mechanic who hadn't spoken a word from the corner, said quietly.

Outside, Hoyt led Eva to the crosswalk. He looked left, then right, checking the empty street with the intensity of a bodyguard clearing a kill zone.

"Walk," he commanded.

They crossed the street toward the small wooden structure on the corner. The sign read Mrs. Rose's Fresh Produce. A light was on inside.

Mrs. Rose was pulling blue tarps over crates of oranges. The stand was illuminated by a single, naked yellow bulb that swung gently in the wind.

"Nana," Hoyt called out. "Don't lock up yet."

The old woman turned. Her face was a map of wrinkles, lined with age and kindness. She wore a thick wool cardigan and a floral apron.

She smiled when she saw Hoyt. "You need apples, honey? Or did you just come to scold me for working late?"

Then, her gaze shifted. She saw the figure standing behind Hoyt.

Eva stepped into the light. She lowered her hood. Her wet hair framed her face-pale skin, wide dark eyes, a sharp jawline.

Nana's smile froze. Her hands went slack.

The basket of apples she was holding slipped from her fingers. It hit the ground with a dull thud. Red apples rolled across the wet pavement, scattering like spilled blood.

"Amirah?" Nana whispered.

The name hung in the damp air.

Eva's eyes filled with tears. She shook her head slowly. No. Not Amirah. Just the leftovers.

Nana took a step forward, her hands trembling violently. "You... you have her eyes. Her face."

Hoyt watched the scene unfold. He looked from Eva to Nana, piecing it together. The resemblance was uncanny. Eva wasn't just a random runaway. She was a ghost. Amirah was the daughter who had left twenty years ago and never came back.

Eva stepped over the scattered apples. She reached out a hand.

Nana was too shocked to move. She stared at Eva as if she were a hallucination that would vanish if she blinked.

The rain started to pick up again, tapping a rhythm on the tin roof of the stand.

Hoyt moved quietly. He crouched down and began picking up the apples, giving them space, but his ears were tuned to every sound, every breath.

Eva opened her mouth to speak. She wanted to say, It's me. I'm Eva. But the silence in her throat was a brick wall. Nothing came out but a ragged exhale.

She tapped her throat with two fingers.

Nana looked confused, tears pooling in her eyes. "Can't you speak, child?"

Eva shook her head sadly.

She reached into her damp jeans pocket. She pulled out the folded, crumpled piece of paper she had written on the bus, just in case.

Hoyt stood up, holding the basket of apples. He watched them, feeling like an intruder in a moment too private for strangers.