Page 7 of Monk

My throat tightened. “Yeah, baby. You’ll meet him.” In that promise, I felt hope and worry tangled together.

Tatum had never met my father—her Grandpa David—never touched any piece of my old life except through faded photographs and carefully edited stories. I’d kept her sheltered, held her inside a bubble spun from hope and fear, always striving to keep the past at bay. But now, as the air in her room felt heavy and thick, I could sense the bubble thinning, ready to burst. My hands trembled slightly where they rested in my lap, the ache of regret settling deep in my chest. I squeezed her hand, grateful she still cared for my father, even if she’d never met him.

“What about school?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she fiddled with the corner of her blanket.

“I’ll talk to your teacher. You can do your work online for a little while.” I brushed a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, trying to reassure her—and myself.

She nodded slowly. Then her gaze drifted to the window, the pale light catching her features. “Will we see where my dad lived?”

My heart stopped, seized tight, as if someone had wrapped icy hands around it. I looked away, searching for words asmy pulse quickened, the taste of copper sharp in my mouth. Memories rushed in: the echo of motorcycle engines, the foggy shape of his smile, the ache of loss that never really faded. “What?” My voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

“My dad. You said he was from Oklahoma. From Lawton. Will we see where he lived?” She watched me closely, her fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve, eyes wide and searching.

I had told her the story when she was four, when her questions first began.Your father rode a motorcycle. He died before you were born. He would have loved you so much.Simple, sanitized, a gentle version that explained everything and nothing. She had accepted it then, but now—now she was older, her innocence chipped by curiosity, her mind sharper, always reaching for what lay beyond the edges of the story. I felt the weight of her expectations press on me, forcing me to confront truths I had kept buried.

“Maybe,” I said carefully, my voice trembling as I focused on the scar from an old burn along my thumb. “I don’t know if the place is still there.” I felt the old panic rise, my chest tight, thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind.

It was the truth. I didn’t know if the clubhouse had survived, if the Diamondbacks had rebuilt, if anything from that night seven years ago was still standing. The memory tasted bitter—smoke, metal, blood—every sense haunted by the possibility that the past might still linger, waiting for us.

Part of me hoped it wasn’t. Part of me hoped the whole thing had burned to the ground and taken every memory with it, so I could finally let go. But another part mourned for what might have been, for the stories left untold.

“Okay,” Tatum said, and before I could respond, she wrapped her arms around me, small and fierce. Her warmth pressed against my neck, grounding me. “I hope Grandpa gets better.” Iclosed my eyes, holding her close, the tremor of my heart easing just a little at her touch.

“Me too, baby. Me too.” My voice was soft, but my resolve felt stronger, shaped by her hope and my own tangled fears.

We flew out the next morning, just as the sun was beginning to break over the horizon. Tatum blinked awake as the plane prepared for takeoff, rubbing her eyes and looking up at me. “Are we really going to Grandpa David’s ranch?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engines.

I smiled and squeezed her hand. “Yes, baby. We’ll be there soon.”

She settled back against me, her warmth grounding me in the present even as my thoughts raced ahead.

I had packed quickly the night before—clothes for both of us, enough for at least a week, Tatum’s schoolwork so she wouldn’t fall behind, my laptop in case I needed to handle anything for the firm. I called Mrs. Patterson; told her we were coming and that we’d arrive early afternoon. She offered to pick us up from the airport, her voice warm and insistent, but I politely declined and rented a car instead.

I needed the control. Needed the independence. Needed to be able to leave if things got too hard, too overwhelming, too much to bear.

The flight was smooth and mercifully uneventful. Tatum slept most of the way, her small body curled against mine, her head resting on my shoulder, her breath soft and rhythmic.I stared out the window at the endless expanse of clouds stretching below us, white and pristine, trying not to think about what I was flying toward. Tried to focus on the hum of the engines, the muffled conversations around us—anything but the reality waiting for us on the ground. But the closer we got, the harder it became to ignore. The knot in my stomach tightened with every passing mile, every minute that brought us nearer to a place I hadn’t seen in years, to memories I had worked so hard to bury.

Seven years.

As the engines roared beneath us, my mind drifted back to that night seven years ago when I’d left in the middle of the night with nothing but a duffel bag and a broken heart. After that, I built a whole life for myself and my daughter in San Francisco—a career, a home, a future for Tatum. I convinced myself I’d never have to go back. Yet here I was, thirty thousand feet above, heading straight into a past I had tried so hard to outrun.

What if the clubhouse was still there? What if I drove past it and saw bikes parked outside, heard music and laughter, saw men in leather cuts walking around like nothing had ever happened?

What if I sawhim?

No.I shut that thought down immediately. Tatum stirred beside me, mumbling something in her sleep, and I brushed a stray curl from her cheek, grateful for the distraction.

John was dead. I saw the bodies. Heard the paramedic say most of the officers were gone. I stood outside that clubhouse and watched them wheel out the dead, and even if I hadn’t seen his face, Iknew.

He was gone. He had to be. Because if he wasn’t, if he had somehow survived and never looked for me...

No.I couldn’t think about that.

The plane landed in Oklahoma City just after noon. As we made our way toward the rental car counter, Tatum tugged at my sleeve, excitement flickering in her eyes. “Can I help pick our car?” she asked.

I nodded, grateful for the grounding moment, and together we chose a sensible sedan—nothing flashy. We started the drive south to Lawton, the road stretching ahead, the past and present twisting together as the landscape changed.

Tatum chattered in the backseat, her excitement bubbling over despite the heaviness that lingered in the car. She pressed her face to the window, eyes wide. “Are there really wild horses out there?” she gasped, then bounced in her seat. “Will Grandpa David let me feed the cows? Or ride a pony?”