Chapter 8

Blake

Some people leave and take a piece of you with them.

Others leave and you take a piece of them, and you spend the rest of your life trying to figure out where to put it down.

I’m on a stool beside the lift in the garage, elbow-deep in the carburetor of the Hendersons’ old Shovelhead, which has been fighting me all afternoon, when I hear my sister’s voice carry across the lot.

“Well, well. Welcome back, traitor.”

There’s only one person in the world Brianna has ever called that.

The wrench slips out of my hand and clangs against the concrete. I don’t remember getting up. One second I’m hunched over the bike, the next I’m in the garage doorway, shrugging my jacket on and wiping my hands on a rag, and half the pack is on the porch, and the cold is coming off the gravel in waves.

And there she is.

At first, I don’t recognize her. I’m looking for someone else, and my eyes slide right past the small, thin woman standing by the t