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Though my thoughts keep going back to Striker. I was so close to telling him that he’s Josie’s father but then I clammed up. I just couldn’t do it. He’d almost witnessed his friend being shot down in cold blood. Giving him life-changing news after that seemed like the wrong time and place. But I’m going to cook him a nice meal tonight and I intend on telling him then.

I glance over. Tessa’s sitting in a pedicure chair, looking like a queen sitting on her throne. She’s got a Shirley Temple in one hand and a woman working on her toes. Christina is Slate’s old lady and she’s picking out nail colors. Queenie is holding court from the chair at the end. This older woman might be tiny, but she’s also sharp-eyed and smart as a whip. One of the spa girls is painting her nails such a dark shade of red that it’s almost black.

I can’t think of a better way to spend the afternoon than sitting around in a luxurious white robe while the spa employees pamper us. They call my name and I head into the little room partitioned off with a curtain where they give massages. I groan as the masseuse works years of tension out of my shoulders. I intend to enjoy every single minute of this experience before I have to go back to being a woman with a target on her.

I still can’t quite believe I’m here with the other old ladies, feeling for all the world like I fit in with them. Six weeks ago, I came to Cedar Falls intending to bury my uncle, settle an estate, and leave quietly afterwards. Now I’m lying on a heated massage table getting the best massage of my life while I listen to the others tell fascinating stories about their lives.

When my massage is finished, I sit up, feeling warm and relaxed. I walk over and drop down into the empty chair beside Tessa. That turns out to be an unfortunate choice because it puts me in direct line of sight for Queenie. She and Rock founded this club over thirty years ago. They say she has an eagle eye and a sixth sense, especially when it comes to other women. I start to squirm when she gazes at me for way too long.

“That little girl of yours,” she says, blowing on her nails. “Josie. She can be a stubborn little thing, just like Striker.”

“She’s always been that way,” I interject quickly, hoping to move the conversation on quickly.

“She also gets the exact expression on her face that Striker does when he gets like that. She’s cute as can be but I noticed it the first day you brought her to the clubhouse.”

Everyone turns to look at me at the same time because it’s clear what she’s alluding to. I feel the color drain from my face. If there is one thing I know about Queenie, it’s that she likes to throw little bombs into the center of the room to see what happens. She threw a big one just now. My secret is out in the open among the other old ladies.

“Queenie,” Tessa hisses disapprovingly. Her voice sounds like it’s half warning and half secret hope that it’s true.

“I’m just pointing out what I see.” Queenie stares at me, but there is no insult or accusation intended, just a gentle knowing expression on her face.

Christina speaks up. “Forgive Queenie, Beth. She always knows and it’s hard not to say. As soon as she saw Katie she knew she was Slate’s daughter.”

Queenie perks up, saying proudly, “And I’m not wrong right now either, am I, Beth?”

I could lie. I’ve been lying for three years. And I’m good at it. Part of me wants to laugh it off and say she’s imagining it. Maybe most of the women here would even believe it. But I’m so tired of lying and even more tired of keeping this secret locked inside. Maybe now’s the time to finally tell the truth, to finally let the cat out of the bag.

“No,” I say. “You’re not wrong, Queenie. But he doesn’t know she’s his.” My voice trembles as I say it. I hate feeling vulnerable, but I hate lying more. “I found out I was pregnant after we broke up three years ago. You all know what happened there. Long story short, I left, and I had her alone. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell him since the day I came back and it just never seems like the right time. Every time I get close, something happens and I put it off again.”

Tessa reaches over and grabs my hand. Queenie nods slowly. She clearly enjoys being proven right.

“Well,” Queenie says. “Thank God you’re going to tell him. He’s gotten attached to Josie, so I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.” She flexes her freshly painted fingers. “We need to come up with a plan, though. It should be something cute and special.”

I shake my head. “Cute and special might be good if I was going to tell him I was pregnant. But I don’t know how he’d take it now. I missed so many opportunities to tell him. I’m worried he’s going to be mad at me, and he has every right to be,” I say.

“He’s going to be absolutely thrilled,” Tessa says enthusiastically, squeezing my hand.

“No. He’s going to be unbearable,” Christina says dryly. “He’s going to put her in a tiny cut and teach her all about computers and security.”

“Don’t worry about that. Josie doesn’t have the attention span for anything like that. She’s too busy stealing his boots to play the bunny hop game.” After a bunch of confused looks, I explain what that is and how Striker has to finesse his boots away from her almost every morning. They smile at the image of that in their minds and start telling cute kid stories of their own.

And just like that, they are supporting me, acting like the supportive friends I always wished were in my life.

Finally, Tessa circles back around to my problem. “You should put her in a little shirt that says something like, “My daddy’s a badass biker.” And then sit back and watch his face when he figures it out.”

“Or better yet, get them matching T-shirts,” Christina interjects. “One that says Dad, one that says Daughter. Give them a minute and he’ll figure it out.”

Someone calls out, “Write it on a cake. Everyone loves cake almost as much as they do kids.”

There is a round of laughter. I like that everyone is having fun generating ideas. Some are more feasible than others, but I still think doing the “Hey! Surprise! You’re a daddy!” approach, two years too late, might not go down well.

Nora speaks up. She’s a bit quieter than the others. “I’d write it in a card or a letter. That way you can explain why you waited so long to tell him. ‘Cause he’s gonna want to know that, right?”

I freeze, because she’s not wrong about that. A letter might be the best way. Before I can answer, Queenie throws in her two cents’ worth.

“Don’t overthink this,” Queenie says. “Striker is the kind of man who appreciates direct, honest communication. I think you should put your daughter in his arms, look him in the eyes and just tell him. Say something like, “Striker, meet your daughter.” That way it will hit him like a Mack truck, and you get a front-row seat. Striker values truth and loyalty above everything else.”

I’m thinking over their suggestions when we hear tires squeal at the front of the building. One of the prospects steps over to the doorway to look out into the lobby, and he turns with a panicked expression on his face. “Everyone get in the back. Move. Move. Move. We’ve got incoming and they’re armed.”