“Forever?”
Grant looked at her.
“As long as I can.”
She nodded.
Deal completed.
We reached Bakersfield after dark.
The shelter was hidden behind a plain fence on a residential street.
No large sign.
No obvious address visible from the main road.
Grant stopped two blocks away.
The other riders did too.
He walked to my window.
I rolled it down halfway.
Not all the way.
Old habits.
“Your sister knows we’re coming?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Why are you stopping here?”
“We don’t need fifteen motorcycles advertising the shelter’s location.”
That answer told me something else about him.
He understood privacy.
Safety.
The difference between helping and making yourself the center.
“I thought you were riding to Victorville.”
“Changed route.”
“Because of us?”
He shrugged.
“Roads go everywhere.”
I looked back.
Fifteen men had spent most of a day going out of their way for a woman they did not know.
I had no language for it.
“Grant.”
He waited.
“Thank you.”
“Okay.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
He smiled.
“You’re welcome.”
I nodded.
Then I asked, “What happens if that SUV comes back?”
His expression turned serious.
“You call police.”
I expected something tougher.
Something dramatic.
Maybe that was why his answer mattered.
“No chasing.”
“No fighting.”
“No club war.”
“Evidence.”
He tapped the edge of my door.
“People like whoever sent them count on scared people reacting badly.”
“Don’t give them that.”
I looked down.
He continued.
“Keep records.”
“Talk to the legal clinic.”
“Send copies somewhere safe.”
“Make them explain themselves on paper.”
I smiled weakly.
“You don’t sound like the kind of biker people warn women about.”
Grant raised an eyebrow.
“People warn women about all kinds of men.”
Fair.
He stepped back.
“Go.”
I put the car in gear.
Chloe lowered her window before I could stop her.
“Bye!”
Fifteen hands lifted.
A few bikers waved.
One saluted.
Grant tapped his vest where the two-dollar bill rested.
Then we drove away.
His sister met us at the shelter gate.
Her name was Rachel.
She looked nothing like Grant except around the eyes.
She hugged nobody.
I appreciated that immediately.
“You Abigail?”
“Yes.”
“Chloe?”
My daughter lifted Mr. Buttons.
“This is him.”
Rachel nodded solemnly.
“Important introduction.”
She led us inside.
For the first time in three weeks, I locked a door and believed the lock might mean something.
I put Chloe in a narrow bed with clean sheets.
She curled around her rabbit.
“Mommy?”
“Yeah?”
“Are the motorcycle men bad?”
I sat beside her.
The question surprised me.
“What makes you ask that?”
“You were scared.”
I closed my eyes briefly.
Children notice everything.
“I didn’t know them.”
“So?”