Derek’s head snapped around.
Cassie had seen the name in old records.
Tommy Warren.
Former vice president.
Joined 1974.
Disappeared from chapter photographs around fifteen years earlier.
Nobody explained why.
Maria asked:
“After fifteen years?”
“He heard about Cassie’s project.”
Graham looked toward his daughter.
“Saw something on the chapter page.”
“Said it got him thinking.”
Derek stood.
“Tommy has no business here.”
Graham’s expression hardened.
“Easy.”
“He walked.”
“Yes.”
“My father died believing he betrayed this club.”
Silence spread.
Graham rubbed his forehead.
“We all believed things when Bull died.”
Derek’s jaw tightened.
“He doesn’t get to come back because he got nostalgic.”
“Maybe not.”
“Then tell him no.”
Graham looked at him.
“No.”
Derek laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
He walked into the back room.
Cassie pretended to return to her notes.
She understood immediately that Tommy was not simply an old member.
He was a wound.
Later, when most people had left, Graham found Cassie packing.
“You doing okay?”
“Sore.”
“You’ll live.”
“That seems to be the official club motto.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“Tommy’s complicated.”
Cassie zipped her bag.
“I figured.”
“Don’t write anything yet.”
“I won’t.”
He studied her.
“Not because I’m hiding it.”
“I know.”
“It involves people who aren’t here to explain themselves.”
“Bull?”
Graham nodded.
“And others.”
Cassie waited.
Her father looked toward the dark bar.
“When you’re ready for history, you always think you want the whole thing.”
“Then?”
“Then you learn history has people inside it.”
He picked up his helmet.
“You still want it?”
“Yes.”
Graham nodded.
“Then be patient.”
Tommy arrived the following Thursday.
Cassie was alone in the clubhouse after school, transcribing an interview with Maria.
Graham had given her permission to work there while he ran errands.
At 3:42, an unfamiliar motorcycle pulled into the lot.
Cassie looked through the window.
A man in his mid-fifties removed his helmet.
No club colors.
Plain brown leather jacket.
Gray hair.
He stood beside the bike for nearly a minute before approaching the door.
His hand rested on the frame as though the wood were both sacred and dangerous.
Then he entered.
“You Cassie?”
She stood.
“Yes.”
He smiled.
“You look like Graham.”
“I’m sorry.”
Tommy laughed.
That seemed to relax him.
“I’m Tommy.”
“I guessed.”
“Bad reputation?”
“Mostly silence.”
His smile disappeared.
“That sounds about right.”
Cassie gestured toward the coffee machine.
“I think there’s some left.”
“How old?”
“Unknown.”
“Then it’s club coffee.”
She poured him a cup.
Tommy walked slowly through the room.
His eyes moved over photographs.
Patches.