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Recognition flashes over his face and my gut twists that he somehow knows my last name.
“Chevy,” Violet says. “I think we all need to sit down.”
“What’s wrong with the car?” Isaiah asks, ignoring Violet.
“Spark plugs,” answers Rachel. He looks over at her and holds her gaze. Just like me and Violet, they have an entire conversation without saying a word.
“Start the car,” Isaiah says. “I want to listen to it.”
“Tell me how you know my last name,” I push.
“You walked into my garage, so I’m feeling like you already know the answer. As I see it, you’ve got two options—leave or start the car.”
I pull Violet’s keys from my pocket and keep the car door open as I start the engine. He calls for me to pop the hood. I do, and after a minute of him asking me to press the gas and then to take my foot off, he tells me to cut the engine.
“Spark plugs,” he confirms as he keeps his eyes glued to the insides of the car. “My mother told me James McKinley was my father. Did you know him?”
Was. He’s aware James is dead. “Not personally.” Everything inside me warps and it’s damn painful. “He died before my birth, and according to my mother, he was my father, too.”
“Ain’t life a bitch,” he mumbles.
True. I have a brother and I’m not sure how I feel about that. Scratch that—I do and it tastes bitter like betrayal. “You have a family. A huge family. They’ll want to know about you.”
“What did you come here for?” Isaiah asks. “From the look on your face, it wasn’t me.”
He’s right, but telling him about the Riot, about the police, about everything is a risk. “A detective told me to come here and ask for you. He knows I’m looking for answers about who my father was before he died.”
Isaiah picks up a tool and begins to work on the car. “I don’t know a detective and I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t know shit about James McKinley.”
“Isaiah,” Rachel breathes out almost in a reprimand.
“Fine, I know McKinley’s buried in Louisville, belonged to some motorcycle club in a town south of here, and I know a few other ramblings from my mother that aren’t reliable. She first told me dear old dad didn’t know I existed, but then I took a good look at his gravestone. Mom fessed up that he knew I existed and that we lived with him until he died.”
“How old were you when he died?”
“Less than a year,” Isaiah says.
Which makes him slightly older than me. “Why did she lie?”
“Why does she do anything? Gonna be honest, it’s hard to take the word of a woman who’s spent most of my life in prison.”
Lightbulbs go off in my head. “In prison for what?”
“Not your concern. My turn to ask a question. Why am I on the radar of a detective?”
This is how it’s going to be. A give and a take, because he doesn’t trust me. An explanation as to how the detective knows him won’t help. “Do you know anything about the Riot Motorcycle Club?”
“I hear they deal meth and cocaine. They won’t touch heroin and pot, at least not in Louisville, because there are stronger groups in the area that don’t like to share profits. I also hear the Riot deal in prostitution, but that’s just rumors. That’s twice I’ve answered your questions. Time to answer mine. Tell me about the detective.”
Every image I had of my father collapses. He had a child...a living, breathing child...and James kept him a secret. Just like James asked Mom to keep me a secret. “I asked the detective if my father was loyal to the Riot over my family’s MC and he told me to come here and talk to you.”
Isaiah straightens and tosses the tool onto the bench. “Right about now I’m betting you’re figuring out it’s not me you need to talk to.”
He’s right. I need to talk to the woman who lived with James. I need to talk to Isaiah’s mother.
“Let’s get a few things straight. I spent years in foster care waiting and wishing for someone to waltz into my life and announce they were my long-lost family, but I let those dreams go. One thing life has taught me—blood don’t mean shit. I’ve worked hard for the life I have now. I’ve finally got a great job, a girl I love and a family. The best kind of family. It ain’t blood, but it’s tight.
“My mom isn’t a part of that family. With that said, she may be a piece of work, but she’s my piece of work. You bring problems to her doorstep, you’re bringing problems to my doorstep. If you’re here expecting to drag me into some gang war because we share DNA, you’re sadly mistaken.”
