Shade slowly picked up the paper.

It was a child's drawing.

But it was remarkably detailed.

A white van.

A broken front headlight.

A dent in the front fender shaped almost like a crescent moon.

And part of a license plate.

Shade looked at the boy.

“When did this happen?”

“Tuesday.”

“Where?”

“Fletcher Park.”

Shade's expression hardened.

“What happened?”

The boy swallowed.

“My brother was playing on the swings.”

“What's his name?”

“Lucas.”

“Your brother?”

“My twin.”

Shade leaned forward.

“How old?”

“Ten.”

The boy's voice cracked.

“He doesn't talk much. He's autistic. He gets scared when people yell.”

A large biker approached.

His name was Jerome, president of the Ghost Riders.

He looked at the drawing.

Then at the boy.

“What's your name?”