Page 7 of Doc
The men exchanged glances before sliding off their barstools, murmuring something too low for me to catch as they moved away.Doc tracked them out the door, then came toward my table.
“Finding anything useful?”His voice was neutral but not unkind.The tension in his jaw suggested he was working to maintain his professional demeanor.
I looked up from the scattered papers, suddenly aware of how chaotic my workspace must appear.“Maybe.”My voice came out softer than intended.“Mom was tracking something big before…” I trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.The words stuck in my throat, like they always did when I tried to talk about that day.
Doc’s eyes softened slightly, the first crack I’d seen in his clinical exterior.“Before the accident,” he supplied, not a question but a gentle completion of my thought.
I nodded, grateful for his understanding.“These files are only pieces.The real evidence, whatever she found that was worth --” I swallowed hard.“-- Worth killing for.It’s still out there somewhere.”
Doc studied the papers spread across the table, his expression unreadable.“And you think finding it will lead you to whoever was responsible.”
“I know it will.”I met his gaze directly.“My mother never made accusations without proof.If she said she had evidence that would blow something open, she did.”I tapped a newspaper clipping about a local judge dismissing charges against a nightclub owner.“I just need to figure out what she found and where she hid it.”
Doc nodded slowly, his gaze moving between the papers and my face.For a moment, I thought I saw something like respect in his eyes.
“The President wants to meet with you in an hour.”He checked his watch.“I’d suggest you organize what you want to show him.First impressions matter here.”
With that, he straightened and turned to leave but paused after a few steps.“And Nova?”He stopped but didn’t look back.“Don’t let them get to you.Old bikers talk.It’s what they do when they’re too worn out to ride.”
He continued on his way, leaving me with my mother’s scattered notes and a strange feeling that perhaps I’d found an ally in the most unexpected place.
* * *
The sun slanted through the clubhouse windows, casting long fingers of light across the worn wooden table where I’d been working for hours.My back ached from hunching over Mom’s files, but I couldn’t stop now.Every piece of paper, every scribbled note might contain the key that would unlock the truth about what had happened to my parents.I rubbed my eyes, fighting the fatigue that threatened to blur the words in front of me.Weeks of searching, and I was still piecing together fragments of my mother’s final investigation.
I’d met with the President earlier, laying out what I knew and suspected.He’d listened more than he’d spoken, his weathered face giving nothing away.At the end, he’d simply nodded and said they’d “look into it…” whatever that meant.I had a feeling he was just being vague with me because I wasn’t part of his club.Now I was back at my corner table, surrounded by yellowing newspaper clippings and Mom’s meticulous notes, trying to find connections I might have missed before.
The sound of approaching footsteps made me look up.Doc was crossing the room toward me, a steaming mug in each hand.Unlike this morning, when he’d seemed almost approachable, he was back to the clinical detachment I’d first noticed.Back straight, his expression carefully neutral, as if he’d caught himself letting his guard down and had corrected course.
“Thought you could use this.”He set a mug in front of me.“Been at it for hours.”
“Thank you.”I reached for the coffee at the same moment he was releasing it.
Our fingers brushed, the brief contact sending an unexpected jolt through my hand.I pulled back quickly, nearly spilling the coffee.Doc withdrew his hand just as fast, as if the touch had burned him too.
He cleared his throat, taking a small step back from the table.I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly unable to meet his gaze.What was wrong with me?It was just a casual touch, the kind that happens a dozen times a day between strangers.But something about it had felt… different.
“Sorry,” I murmured, wrapping my hands around the mug and focusing on its warmth.
“No need.”He gestured toward the papers.“Any progress?”
I was grateful for the change of subject.“Maybe.I’m trying to organize everything chronologically, see if there’s a pattern to what Mom was investigating.”
Across the room, a group of club members sat at the bar, occasionally glancing in our direction.Their suspicion was palpable, a physical weight pressing against my skin.Their conversations drifted to me again and again -- whispers that “the girl” spelled trouble, doubts about whether I could be trusted.
Doc followed my gaze, his jaw tightening slightly.“Don’t mind them.They’re just being cautious.”
“They think I’m lying,” I said quietly.“About being Bats’ niece.About my parents.”
“They don’t know what to think,” Doc corrected.“Trust takes time here.”
Turning back to the files, I nodded.“I understand.Can’t blame them for being suspicious.”
The coffee was good -- strong and black, exactly what I needed.I took a long sip before setting the mug aside and returning to the papers in front of me.Mom had been investigating several threads at once, it seemed.Local police corruption.Missing evidence.Judges dismissing cases against certain defendants.Campaign contributions from businesses that didn’t seem to exist.
I went back to grouping articles and notes, looking for connections.Three officers appeared repeatedly in Mom’s notes about evidence that had gone missing from the lockup.Two judges had dismissed cases against the same nightclub owner despite strong evidence.And a real estate company I’d found mention of before, called RH Enterprises, kept appearing as a campaign donor for county officials who later made decisions that seemed questionable at best.
“Look at this.”I suddenly saw a pattern that had eluded me before.I pointed to a series of notes about dismissed cases.“These three cases were all dismissed by Judge Carlton within six months.All three involved the same nightclub, The Velvet Room.And in each case, key evidence went missing from the police evidence room.”I flipped to another page.“Officer Mercer was in charge of the evidence room for all three cases.”
