Page 73 of Rampage

The familiar bell jingles as I push open the diner door, and the scent of coffee and bacon wraps around me like a comfort blanket. Several regular customers look up, their faces breaking into smiles when they recognize me.

"There she is!" Deb calls from behind the counter, her face lighting up. "About time you graced us with your presence, honey!"

I'm surprised by how normal it feels to step back into this space—my first real job, my first taste of independence. The worn vinyl booths, the scratched Formica countertop, the ancient coffee machine that groans with every pot—it all feels like a different life now.

"Sorry for the extended absence," I say, tying an apron around my waist with practiced ease.

Deb waves away my apology. "Honey, family emergencies happen. Just glad you're back. These folks have been missing your smile."

I look around the room at the customers and over half of them are smiling at me, it warms my heart that they have missed me even if it was just for a few days.

The warmth of being missed, of mattering to these people, feels new and precious. I move behind the counter, falling into the familiar rhythm of pouring coffee and taking orders. The routine is comforting, grounding me in normalcy after days of emotional upheaval.

"So," Deb says when there's a lull, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "that motorcycle man of yours… is he treating you right?"

Heat creeps into my cheeks as memories of last night flash through my mind. "Very right," I admit, unable to suppress a smile.

Deb's eyebrows shoot up, and she lets out a delighted cackle. "Well, look at you! Got some color in those cheeks finally." She pats my arm with maternal affection. "About time you found someone worthy of you, honey."

The simple validation makes my chest tight with emotion. Deb has always been kind to me, but this feels different, like she's seeing me as a woman now, not just the quiet, skittish girl she hired.

The morning rush keeps us busy, and I'm grateful for the distraction. Every time the bell above the door jingles, I glance up automatically, still half expecting to see Frank's hulking figure. Old habits die hard, even with the knowledge that he's behind bars.

Around eleven, the door opens to reveal a familiar face, Tiffany, looking crisp and professional in a tailored pantsuit. She slides onto a stool at the counter, offering me a small smile.

"Coffee, black," she says, setting her briefcase on the stool beside her. "And maybe a few minutes of your time when you're free."

My stomach tightens with apprehension, but I nod, pouring her coffee with hands that only slightly tremble. When the diner quiets again, I signal to Deb that I'm taking a break and slide onto the stool next to Tiffany.

"What's happened?" I ask, bracing myself for bad news.

Tiffany sips her coffee before answering. "Nothing bad. The federal prosecutor wanted me to update you. Frank and the others are being denied bail—flight risk and danger to the community." Her voice drops lower. "They're cooperating, Lily. Turning on each other to save themselves."

Relief washes through me, making me dizzy. "So they're talking? Giving names?"

"More than that. They're providing dates, locations, financial records. The case is expanding beyond what we initially thought." Tiffany's expression turns grim. "There are more girls, Lily. Dozens, maybe. Going back almost twenty years."

The magnitude of it hits me like a physical blow. "Twenty years? And no one stopped him?"

"Power protects power," Tiffany says. "Until someone brave enough comes along to break the cycle." She reaches across the counter to squeeze my hand briefly. "That's you, Lily. You did this."

Her words surprise me. I've never thought of myself as brave—just desperate, just lucky to have found Reid and the MC. "I didn't do it alone," I say softly.

"No, but you were the catalyst." Tiffany takes another sip of her coffee. "The prosecutor wants to meet with you next week. Nothing formal yet, just to introduce herself and explain the process going forward."

"Will I have to testify?" The thought of facing Frank across a courtroom makes my stomach churn.

"Eventually, probably. But that's months away, and we'll prepare you thoroughly." She reaches into her briefcase and extracts a business card. "Dr. Sara Levine. She's a trauma specialist who works with survivors preparing for court testimony. I've arranged for you to see her, if you're willing."

I take the card, turning it over in my fingers. Therapy is something I've always avoided—too risky to tell the truth, too painful to confront the memories. But now, with Frank behind bars and my future opening before me, maybe it's time.

"I'll think about it," I promise, tucking the card into my apron pocket.

Tiffany nods, apparently satisfied. "One more thing," she says, her voice softening. "The FBI found something in Frank's records—information about your biological family."

My heart stutters in my chest. "My family? But the records said?—"

"The records were falsified," Tiffany interrupts gently. "Frank had connections in the system, remember? He could make paperwork say whatever he wanted."

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