Chapter 5: The Empty House
The mention of the old mill houses made Jax straighten up instantly, all hesitation vanishing from his posture. The tough biker facade returned, but this time it wasn't about hiding from the past—it was about urgency. He stepped forward, putting a heavy, warm hand on my small shoulder. His fingers were rough, but his grip was surprisingly gentle, anchoring me to the spot.
“What do you mean she’s not there, Leo?” Jax asked, his voice dropping to a tense whisper that carried a sharp, commanding edge. “Where is Sarah?”
“I don't know,” I answered, feeling the first real sting of tears prick the backs of my eyes, though I forced them down, refusing to cry like a little kid. “I woke up this morning and the bed was made. Her keys were gone, but her coat was still hanging by the door. There was just a note on the table telling me to go find the man with the dragon tattoo at the diner if she didn't come back by noon.”
Jax’s face went pale beneath his weathered tan. The dark ink on his left forearm seemed to tighten as his grip on my shoulder squeezed a fraction tighter. He didn't ask any more questions. He knew this town, he knew the people in it, and more importantly, he knew the ghosts that haunted Sarah’s past just as well as she did.
“Get your jacket zipped up tight,” Jax said, his voice turning hard and resolute. He pulled a heavy set of keys from his jeans pocket. “We’re going to your place right now.”
We pushed out of the diner’s back exit into the alleyway, away from the roaring crowd and the gleaming rows of motorcycles. Jax didn't lead me to a big Harley; instead, he unlocked a dusty, black pickup truck parked behind the dumpsters—a quiet, unassuming vehicle that blended into the background. He hoisted me up onto the worn vinyl passenger seat, making sure my door was firmly latched before hurrying around to the driver's side.
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The truck engine roared to life with a deep, familiar rumble, and we pulled out onto the sun-baked highway heading toward the edge of town. The landscape blurred past the window—fading billboards, rusted farm machinery, and endless stretches of dry grass. Neither of us spoke. The tension inside the cab was thick, charged with the terrifying uncertainty of what we would find when we unlocked the front door of the small rental house where I had grown up.
When Jax finally cut the engine in the gravel driveway of our house, the silence of the afternoon felt heavier than any biker rally. He climbed out slowly, stepping onto the cracked concrete path, and motioned for me to stay close behind him as we walked up the steps toward the front door.
