Chapter 8: Ask Him

The deputy took our names at six in the morning and wrote down nothing useful.

He said the fight had been "a disagreement between bikers," and the truckers' phone videos showed four men attacking two people.

He also said that if we wanted to press charges we would have to come back to the county seat in a week.

We would not be there in a week.

By seven we were at a gas station on Route 25, standing under the awning while the rain came down in sheets.

I had cleaned and stitched Ronan's arm on the motel bed with a needle from the first aid kit and my own steady hands.

He hadn't made a sound.

I had told myself it was only fair, since he had taken the knife for me.

Now he stood at the pump with the nozzle in his hand and fuel clicking into his tank, and he wouldn't look at me.

My father's urn was gone, my cheek was swollen shut on one side, and I was done being polite.

"What was he talking about?" I said.

"Who?"

"The man at the bike. He said ask your Shadow what he was doing at the quarry two years ago."

Ronan's hand tightened on the nozzle.

"I'm asking," I said.

"I know."

"You made me a promise last night. You said you would keep my rule."

"I'll keep any rule you make."

"Then here's a second one. No lies. I ask, you answer. Every question."

I waited.

The pump clicked off.

He hung up the nozzle and turned around.

His face was wet from the rain, and he looked more tired than any man I had ever seen.

"All right," he said. "Ask."

"What were you doing at the quarry?"

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