“That is what pawn shops do.”
“Can you just look?”
Bones sighed and unfolded his arms. “Kid—”
“Please.”
The word came out small enough to make Toby hate himself for saying it that way. He hated sounding desperate because desperate people got offered thirty dollars for gold. But he was desperate, and pretending otherwise had stopped being useful.
Bones stared at him for another second. “Fine. Show me.”
Toby took out the canvas pouch.
He loosened the drawstring and tipped the contents onto the bar. The compass clattered first. The pocket watch followed. The gold ring rolled in a tight circle, wobbling until it fell flat against the wood. Last came the tarnished silver lighter, landing with a dull, heavy knock.
Bones glanced down without much interest. His hand moved forward to push the collection back.
His fingers touched the lighter.
He stopped.
At first Toby thought Bones had cut himself. The man's hand froze so completely that every tendon stood out across his knuckles. Slowly, he turned the lighter toward the overhead lamp. The deep engraving caught a line of amber light.
Toby watched the color drain from Bones's face.
The transformation was so immediate that nearby laughter died without anyone being told. Bones lifted the lighter closer. His thumb traced the missing jaw of the skull, then the broken chain, then the worn initials beneath it.
E.C.
“Sal,” Bones said.
The bartender looked over.
“Unplug the jukebox.”
Sal did not ask why.
He bent beneath the counter and pulled the cord from the wall. The guitar riff collapsed into silence with a mechanical groan.
Every conversation in the Rusty Anchor stopped.
Pool cues lowered. A man near the back booth set his bottle down without drinking. Somebody closed the front door and turned the lock, not because he had been ordered to yet, but because something in Bones's face told him ordinary business had just ended.
Toby's mouth went dry.
“Where did you get this?” Bones asked.
“My dad's box.”
“Who gave it to your dad?”
“I do not know.”
“Who was your dad?”
“Richard Harris.”
Bones looked toward the rear of the bar. “Nicky.”
A lean red-haired biker straightened at once.
“Get Reaper.”
The red-haired man disappeared through the steel office door.
Toby took one step backward. “Did I do something wrong?”
Bones's eyes shifted to him. For the first time, there was no mockery in them at all. There was something far more unnerving.
Fear.
“Not yet,” Bones said. “Just stay still.”
The steel door opened.
Silas Cole stepped into the bar.
He was not the largest man in the room, but the room belonged to him the instant he entered it. He was in his late forties, tall and leaner than Bones, with silver beginning to dominate the dark hair tied at the back of his neck. His leather cut was cleaner than most, his movements quiet, economical, and unhurried. The men nearest his path moved aside before he reached them.
“What is it?” Silas asked.