Sarah reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
She handed it to Bear.
The address was familiar.
A converted repair garage twenty miles outside the city.
Doc's workshop.
Bear looked at the paper for a long moment.
Then he looked at Sarah.
“Why would Michael go there?”
Sarah shook her head.
“He said he needed to speak to someone who knew the truth.”
Bear folded the paper.
“Who?”
Sarah's voice dropped to a whisper.
“I think he went to find the man who signed his death certificate.”
The road to Doc's workshop ran through a stretch of countryside where the trees had begun turning gold and red.
Bear rode at the front.
Mason followed close behind him, with Cole and two other riders bringing up the rear.
The engines roared beneath them, but Bear barely heard the sound.
His thoughts were louder.
Doc had been there when the call came.
Doc had sat beside him after the supposed funeral.
Doc had helped him carry his mother's coffin.
Doc had spent seventeen years riding beside him, sharing meals, repairing motorcycles, and showing up whenever Bear needed help.
If Doc had known Michael was alive, then every act of kindness had become tangled with the secret.
Bear didn't know how to separate the two.
He remembered Doc sitting with him on the porch after their mother died, saying that grief had no timetable.
He remembered Doc bringing food when Bear forgot to eat.
He remembered Doc telling him that the worst thing a man could do was let regret turn him into somebody who no longer recognized himself.
Had any of those moments been genuine?
Or had Doc been comforting him while knowing that the grief itself was unnecessary?
Bear hated the question.
He hated even more that he couldn't dismiss it.
Mason rode beside him for a few miles before speaking through the communication system.
“You think Doc knew everything?”
Bear considered the question.
“I think he knew something.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“No.”
“Do you believe he helped Michael?”
Bear looked at the road.
“I don't know.”
Mason was silent for a moment.
“Whatever happens, don't let anger make the decision for you.”
Bear almost laughed.
“That's what I used to tell Michael.”
“Maybe you should listen to yourself.”
Bear said nothing.
The workshop appeared around a bend in the road.
Its large doors stood open.
Sunlight spread across the concrete floor, illuminating a collection of tools, spare parts, and motorcycle frames.
Doc stood at a workbench.
He was alone.
Bear pulled into the gravel lot and shut down his engine.
Mason stopped beside him.
Cole and the other riders remained near the entrance.
Bear removed his helmet.
Doc looked up.
“You found Sarah.”
Bear walked toward him.
“You knew.”
Doc set down his wrench.
“Knew what?”
“That Michael was alive.”
Doc looked at him for several seconds.
Then he answered.
“Yes.”
The single word landed harder than any denial could have.
Bear stopped moving.
Mason muttered something under his breath.
Cole looked away.
Bear felt his hands trembling.
“You signed the death certificate.”
Doc shook his head.
“No.”
“Your name is on it.”
“The signature was copied.”
“Why?”
Doc looked down at the workbench.
“Because Michael asked me to help him disappear.”
Bear stared at him.
For a moment, he could not understand the words.
“Say that again.”
Doc lifted his eyes.
“Michael came to me six years ago, after the accident. He was injured, but alive. He had uncovered something connected to Northway Protective Services, and he believed somebody was trying to kill him.”
Bear took a slow breath.
“And you helped him fake his death.”
Doc nodded.
“Yes.”
“You let me believe my brother was dead.”
“Yes.”
“You let my mother believe her son was dead.”
Doc's face tightened.
“Your mother knew.”
Bear felt as though someone had struck him.
“Don't.”
“Grant—”
“Don't say her name.”
Doc stopped.
Bear looked around the workshop, searching for something solid to focus on.
A toolbox.
A motorcycle frame.
A coffee mug.
Anything that would keep him from losing control.
“You let me visit a grave,” he said quietly. “You let me carry flowers to a marker that might not have had my brother beneath it. You sat beside me when I cried, and all that time you knew he was alive.”
Doc's eyes filled.
“I believed I was protecting you.”
Bear's voice rose.
“From what? The truth?”
“From the people who were trying to kill him.”
“You could have told me.”
“No, I couldn't.”
“You could have trusted me.”
Doc shook his head.
“You don't understand what Michael found.”
“Then explain it!”
Doc glanced toward the open doors.
“Not until Michael gets here.”
Bear stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because it's his story to tell.”
Bear laughed once, without humor.
“Six years ago, you decided it was his story to hide. Today, you're deciding it's his story to tell. Does anybody in this family get to make a decision for himself?”
Doc flinched.
Bear took another step forward.
“I want the truth. All of it.”
Doc opened his mouth.
Then a motorcycle engine roared outside.
Everyone turned.
A black motorcycle rolled across the gravel and stopped near the entrance.
The rider removed his helmet.
Bear forgot how to breathe.
Michael Callahan stood beside the motorcycle.
He looked older than he had in the photographs. His body was leaner, and gray had spread through his beard. A scar crossed above one eyebrow, and the skin around his eyes carried the marks of too many sleepless nights.
But his eyes were the same.
His crooked smile was the same.
Even the way he stood, shifting slightly toward his right leg, was the same.
Bear took one step.
Michael didn't move.
For several seconds, the brothers stared at each other.
Neither spoke.
Bear had imagined this moment countless times.
In some versions, he shouted.
In others, he struck Michael.
Sometimes he demanded an explanation. Sometimes he simply walked away.
In his loneliest moments, he imagined embracing his brother and begging him to stay.
But now that Michael was standing in front of him, alive and breathing, Bear couldn't find a single word that seemed large enough for what he felt.
Finally, his voice broke.
“You're alive.”
Michael's expression tightened.
“So are you.”