Loud.
Possessive.
Mean.
We pull away from Dead Man’s Curve with Amelia’s broken truck on the tow rig, her boxes strapped down, August asleep against her, and my headlight catching the fog behind us one last time.
For a second, in the mirror, I see something pale at the shoulder.
A scrap of fabric.
A branch.
A woman.
I blink.
It’s gone.
Hell Road falls behind us.
Ahead, the lights of Hell, Kentucky flicker low in the dark. Not many. Hell ain’t never been a town that wastes light on making itself pretty. I follow the tow rig toward town, toward the old jail, dubbed the Lockup, our clubhouse, toward Legend, toward whatever truth Amelia dragged onto Hell Road with her.
I should be thinking about the cut tire.
About Jeremy.
About Legendary Mike Welles and the woman who thinks he might be her father.
Instead, I keep seeing Amelia’s face in the headlight. Scared, furious, embarrassed, still standing.
Poor Legend.
Poor me.
Poor every bastard who thought tonight would stay simple.
I almost smile.
Almost.
Then Widowmaker carries me into Hell.
Chapter Two
Amelia
I’ve never felt poorer than I do riding into Hell, Kentucky in the passenger seat of a tow rig, my child asleep beside me, my busted truck dragging behind us, and my underwear stuffed in the bottom of my purse like evidence from a crime scene.
That is saying something because I’ve been poor plenty of times.
Poor with a full pantry and no money in checking because bills came out early.
Poor with a husband who makes good money but keeps me asking for every dollar like a beggar.
Poor with a closet full of clothes I’m not allowed to wear because he says they make me look cheap, then not allowed to throw away because he says wastefulness is trashy.
Poor in ways that don’t always show up on paper.