Terry rubbed his face.
“There it is.”
“You can send me away.”
“Didn’t say that.”
“You’re thinking it.”
“I’m thinking about ten things.”
Sky looked toward the garage.
“I won’t cause trouble.”
“That sentence usually means trouble already exists.”
She said nothing.
Terry continued.
“Does the home know where you are?”
“Probably not.”
“Police looking?”
“I don’t know.”
“Caseworker?”
“I don’t know.”
Terry looked at her.
“What’s your full legal name?”
“Skylar Mae Holloway.”
“Birthday?”
She gave it.
“Any medication?”
“No.”
“School?”
“Not right now.”
“Why?”
She stared toward the gravel lot.
“They moved me again.”
Terry felt his stomach tighten.
“How many times?”
Sky shrugged.
“Since Luther?”
“Yes.”
“I stopped counting at seven.”
Terry’s anger found nowhere useful to go.
He stood.
“Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find Lucy.”
Lucy Barrett had spent twenty-seven years doing payroll, tax filings, insurance paperwork, license renewals, and every other administrative task the Iron Jaws pretended they did not understand.
She was fifty-two, widowed, direct, and almost impossible to intimidate.
She also had a spare bedroom in a modest ranch house six miles from the garage.
When Terry explained, Lucy’s first words were:
“We call a lawyer.”
Gregory overheard.
“Not child services?”
“Both eventually.”
Terry nodded.
Gregory crossed his arms.
“Eventually?”
Lucy looked at him.
“If we call an agency with no plan except ‘a teenage runaway slept in a motorcycle garage,’ what do you think happens?”
Gregory frowned.
“She gets removed.”
“Correct.”
“We’re not hiding her.”
“No.”
Lucy closed the ledger on her desk.
“We document that she arrived voluntarily, we do not move her around, we do not coach her, and we get legal advice immediately.”
“Who?”
“Terry knows someone.”
Martha Clark.
Family-law attorney.
Fifty-six.
County court veteran.
Divorced twice.
Owner of a briefcase older than Ryan Parker would have been if he existed in this story.
Terry had hired her during a custody modification years earlier after his former spouse moved out of state.
He called.
Martha answered after six rings.
“Nolan.”
“How do you know it’s me?”
“Everyone else emails like civilized people.”
“I need help.”
“That’s usually why people call lawyers.”
“It’s about a kid.”
Her tone changed.
“What kind of kid problem?”
“Fourteen-year-old runaway showed up at the garage.”
Silence.
Then:
“Please tell me you called child services.”
“We’re calling you first.”
“Terry.”
“Listen.”
“I’m listening.”
“She says she’s Luther Holloway’s little sister.”
Martha knew enough local history to pause.
“The man who died years ago?”
“Yes.”
“And she is currently where?”
“At the garage.”
“Get her out of the garage.”
Terry blinked.
“What?”
“Not onto the street, genius.”
Martha sighed.
“Does any responsible adult there have an actual residence with a bedroom, working smoke detectors, food, no weapons lying around, and no rotating group of grown men sleeping on sofas?”
Terry looked toward Lucy.
“Lucy.”
“Good. Put the child at Lucy’s house tonight if the child agrees and if there’s no immediate safety issue there.”
Lucy took the phone.
“Martha, it’s Lucy Barrett.”
“Of course it is. You’re the only reason that club has survived tax season.”
“Probably.”
Martha continued.