“I don’t miss it. That one’s mine.”
Every painting.
Every sketch.
Every helmet.
One black scale.
Gregory looked at the girl.
“Where did you get this?”
“My brother drew the original.”
Jimmy slowly straightened.
Terry’s face changed.
Gregory stared.
“Your brother’s name.”
The girl’s eyes moved around the room as if she had expected the question but still feared answering it.
“Luther.”
Gregory’s mouth went dry.
She continued.
“Luther Holloway.”
Nobody laughed after that.
The radio seemed suddenly too loud.
Jimmy crossed the room and switched it off.
Silence settled between the motorcycles.
Jeff looked from face to face.
He had joined the club only a year earlier.
“Who’s Luther Holloway?”
Gregory did not look away from the girl.
Terry answered quietly.
“Hollow.”
Jeff knew that name.
Every newer Iron Jaw knew that name.
The photograph hung in the back meeting room.
Luther “Hollow” Holloway standing beside a red-and-black custom bike, one boot on the rear peg, grin crooked beneath a beard that never grew evenly.
Founding-era member.
Mechanic.
Painter.
Storyteller.
Trouble magnet when he was young.
The man credited with designing the second version of the Iron Jaws emblem.
Dead nine years.
Gregory finally spoke.
“Hollow never said he had a sister.”
The girl’s face closed slightly.
“He didn’t talk about me much.”
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
Gregory did the math.
Luther had been thirty-eight when he died.
Sky would have been five.
He looked at the date on the napkin again.
Nine years earlier.
The year Luther died.
Gregory asked:
“What’s your name?”
“Sky.”
“Sky what?”
“Holloway.”
Terry stepped closer.
“You have identification?”
Sky looked at him.
“No.”
“Phone?”
“No.”
“Someone know you’re here?”
A pause.
“Not yet.”
That answer changed the temperature again.
Gregory noticed immediately.
“Not yet?”
Sky looked toward the door.
Then back.
“I just need work.”
Terry sighed.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer I have.”
Gregory held up the napkin.
“You drew this?”
Sky nodded.
“From memory?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“My brother showed me the design when I was little.”
Gregory’s eyes narrowed.
“Hollow taught you?”
“Every weekend.”
Jimmy moved closer.
“Paint?”
“Yes.”
“At five?”
“Finger paint first.”
For the first time, the corner of her mouth lifted.
“He said brushes were too expensive to waste on me until I could stay inside the lines.”
Jimmy laughed once.
A real laugh this time.
“That sounds like Hollow.”
Sky’s expression changed at the recognition.
Just a little.
Relief.
It was the first evidence that she had not come merely because Luther once mentioned the club.
She had come because she needed someone else to remember him.
Jimmy walked to a shelf.
Pulled down an old stripped fuel tank.
Primer gray.
Nothing valuable.
He placed it on the center bench.
“All right.”
Terry looked at him.
“Jimmy.”
“What?”