Page 18 of Ex-Military Biker’s Bride

The morning light is coming in, bright sunshine but with clouds rolling in. Her bag isn't by the door and her boots are gone from under the chair. Laptop gone off the counter, coat gone from the hook. I try her number and it goes straight to voicemail.

The ice pack is back in the freezer. That's the one that gets me; she iced her ankle and put the pack away, then left. It must still hurt for her to do that.

There's a piece of paper on the counter, next to my coffee can of screws.

One word on it, in blue ballpoint, in looping handwriting. Small and slanting hard to the right, it’s the writing of a woman who takes notes at speed.

Luke.

That's it. I turn it over, holding it up to the window like some secret message is going to show through the paper. I stand in my kitchen clutching it as the heating clicks on, then get dressed and head downstairs.

The prospect’s still asleep in his car at the bottom of the outside staircase with his mouth open and the windshield fogged.

Will’s twenty-two years old, skinny as a rake, with a buzzcut he's growing out to look older. He’s wearing a prospect patch on a cut two sizes too big for him because it used to belong to somebody wider. Prez put him on those stairs because the kid would walk through fire to be useful, but he’s too green. He'd have sat up all night if he thought anybody was coming from outside.

The lot is empty where Savage’s truck was parked.

Damn it. With everything else I’m worried about, she’s driving Savage’s deathtrap of a truck.

I knock on the glass and Will comes up out of that seat like he's been shot at.

“Truck's gone,” I tell him.

He looks at the empty gravel, then back at me, his eyes popping. Every bit of color goes out of his face. Then he’s got his door open and both feet on the ground before he's properly awake.

“Lucky, I swear on my life, I never shut my eyes for more than…”

“Move over. I’m driving.”

High Vale's barely up when we drive through. Marvin's has its lights on and a delivery van outside with the back doors open. Marvin, the owner, is out on the step in an apron, hosing something off the concrete. He raises a hand at me and I give him a slow wave, but don't slow down.

The Saloon smells like there was a party last night. Beer, woodsmoke and floor polish. Half the chairs are still up on the tables. Savage is lying on the floor on his back, Harley the cat curled up on his stomach. Some kindly soul has put a rolled up towel under his head, probably Bethany. She’s in the corner, tapping at her laptop.

Savage takes the news of his truck badly.

“You’re tellin’ me she stole my Sheila.”

“Yep.”

“Your new girl stole my fucking truck.” He gently removes the cat from his belly, sits up, and a beer bottle rolls out from under his leg.

“Savage.”

He’s shaking his head, his face is a strange mix of fury and amusement. “I'm impressed. Where were the keys?”

“Hook by my door.”

He sits down on a barstool, which creaks. “So she went and lifted them off a hook in your kitchen… with a busted ankle, while you were lying six feet away asleep. Then drove away without waking Will up?”

“Yes.”

“Brother.” He shakes his head in wonder. “She’s a pro. And you are in big trouble.”

Bethany gestures for me to come over. Her hand is resting on the swell of her belly as she types.

“There's a transfer off Olivia’s machine overnight,” she says, without looking up. “Big one. Her whole working folder, out to a server that belongs to that magazine.”

The floor feels like it’s tipping underneath me.