Chapter 3: The Weight of Ink
Before I could answer, Sarah was walking toward us, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the tile. She wiped her hands on her apron, her eyes narrowed as she looked between Jax’s protective hand on the counter and my small, trembling frame standing on the floor.
"Jax... what is that photo?" Sarah asked quietly, her tone carrying the authority of someone who ran this diner and didn't care who was visiting for the weekend rally.
Jax didn't lift his hand from the picture. He kept his palm glued to the surface, his broad back blocking Sarah’s line of sight just enough to keep the image private. "Nothin' that concerns you, Sarah. Just a piece of old junk a kid found. Ain't that right, boy?" He looked down at me, his eyes searching my face, warning me with a fierce, unspoken intensity not to say another word in front of an audience.
I swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears behind my eyelids. I wasn't scared of Jax, but the sheer weight of what we were hiding felt too big for the diner. I didn't answer Sarah. Instead, I reached back into my jacket pocket—the pocket with the hole in the lining where things always slipped down to the hem—and pulled out the second item. It was a small piece of lined notebook paper, folded neatly into a tiny square, covered in Mom’s shaky, cursive handwriting.
I placed the folded paper right on top of the back of Jax’s hand.
The touch of the paper made him flinch. He didn't brush it away, but his fingers twitched underneath it. The tattoo of a coiled viper on his wrist flexed as he gripped the edge of the counter.
"Mom said you left before I was born," I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "She said if you ever came back through Silver Creek, I had to give you this."
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Sarah took another step closer, crossing her arms over her white apron. "Leo? Is that your mom's handwriting? What's going on here? If someone's bothering you—"
"Nobody's bothering anyone, Sarah," Jax interrupted, his voice dropping an octave into a dangerous rumble that made the waitress pause. He slowly lifted his hand off the photograph, revealing the curled edges, and pinched the folded piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger. He didn't unfold it yet. He just stared at the ink on the outside, his face turning pale beneath his weathered skin.
