Several other victims came forward.
People who had been too frightened to speak finally found the courage to tell their stories.
And my motorcycle shop?
It became busier than ever.
Not because of publicity, but because the community had finally realized the quiet mechanic they’d known for years had never been weak.
He had simply chosen peace.
One Saturday morning, Marcus stopped by with a familiar black leather vest.
He placed it on my workbench.
The silver Black Ridge insignia was still there.
“Your chair is waiting,” he said.
I looked at it for a long moment.
Then I shook my head.
“Not anymore, brother. My priorities have changed.”
He nodded.
“I figured.”
After he left, Tessa walked into the garage carrying two cups of coffee.
She noticed the vest.
“Are you going back?”
I smiled.
“No. I’ve already found what I was looking for.”
She raised an eyebrow.
