Page 83 of Iron Heart

After a lifetime of selfish acts, his last act was a selfless one. He gave the woman I love back to me.

I can almost hear him telling me I’d be a fool to let her slip away.

Dom was always the type to jump in without thinking. To follow his emotions first and foremost. It’s why he was always getting into trouble. He let his heart rule his head, every time.

Just this once, though… just this once…

Maybe he’s right.

I sitin silence at the bar, drinking my beer, looking around at the clubhouse as my brothers start to go through the motions of getting back to normal. The new normal, that is. Gage and Rourke take off, probably to go home to their wives. Yoda challenges Rogue to a game of pool. Somehow, everybody knows to give me my space.

When I’ve finished my beer, I stand up from the bar and walk outside to where my bike is parked. It’s a cloudy, moonless night. The sky looks like a heavy, black curtain.

Exhausted, I rub my eyes and pull out my phone, to place the first of three calls I hoped I’d never have to make.

“Antony,” I begin when he answers. “I’m calling with some bad news.”

32

Tori

“Ithink it’s up there on the right,” I say, pointing. “The yellow one with the red shutters.”

The house is an unassuming ranch style. One of thousands like it that cropped up in the post-World War II boom years. This one is neat and well kept, though the front hedges could use some trimming. A wooden wheelchair ramp has been built on the front of the house, extending from the front stoop to the driveway. The door to the two-car attached garage is open, revealing an interior stacked high with boxes and furniture. Preparations for the estate sale, I’m guessing.

Jake pulls up at the curb and shuts off the engine. Technically, I can drive, since it’s my left ankle that’s broken. But it’s cumbersome getting in and out of the car with my crutches, so for the time being Jake has taken over driving us around when we’re out on assignment together.

I begin the process of extricating myself from the passenger side while Jake goes to get his camera equipment out of the trunk. I sling the long strap of my messenger bag over my head and hoist myself out, then balance on one leg as I reach into the backseat to grab my crutches. I’m just placing them under my armpits when a middle-aged man with sparse gray hair emerges from the depths of the garage.

“Hello there,” he calls, waving. “You must be from the paper.”

“We sure are,” I call back. “I’m Tori. This is my photographer, Jake.”

The man approaches. “I’m Don. Mavis’s son.” He shakes Jake’s hand, then nods toward my crutches and furrows his brow. “What happened there?”

I shrug. “Fell off my porch and broke my ankle.” The lie comes easily now, as many times as I’ve told it. “The cast comes off in two weeks, hopefully.” I cross my fingers and hold them up.

“Well, that’s too bad.” Don raises his forearm and wipes it across his brow. “Why don’t we go inside and get out of this heat. You gonna have any trouble getting up the stairs?”

I give him a grin. “Not since you were kind enough to build me that ramp.”

That gets a laugh. “I did build it, actually. Mom was mostly in a wheelchair the last two years of her life. She still managed to get around just fine inside with her walker, though.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “She was a force to be reckoned with.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss. She sounds like she was a great lady.”

He sighs out a breath. “She really was. But you doing this story on her is a comfort. It’s nice to know people will remember her, beyond her death. Get to read about her life.”

Don shows Jake and me inside, where it’s mercifully air-conditioned against the late summer heat. He has us sit down in the living room, which still has most of its furniture, and brings us glasses of iced tea. In the meantime, I’ve pulled out my notebook, ready to take notes. Jake has done some checks with his light meter and is starting to take some experimental shots.

“So. Tell me about your mom,” I begin when Don is seated comfortably in an easy chair across from me. “Her name was Mavis Arnold, correct?”

“Yes. Her maiden name was Plummer. You probably have the basic details from the obituary?”

I hold up my phone. “I have the link right here. You’re the youngest of three?”

“Yes. My brother and sister both live on the west coast. They were here for the funeral, of course. But since I live in the area, my wife and I are taking care of the other details: the estate sale, listing the house, stuff like that.”

“That must be hard.” I murmur. “Did you grow up in this house?”

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