“Garrett and Matthew are fraternal twins,” Owen says, looking at me with a tilt of the head.
“You got a picture of these guys?” I ask him, my pulse pounding as I turn to the cabinet behind us and pull out an old scrapbook that started around the inception of the club. I leaf through the pages until I find the one I’m looking for just as Owen places his phone on the table showing a picture of a man in his police uniform.
A man I’m acutely familiar with.
“Fuck me,” I whisper, turning to Bates and Priest, who look at the phone in confusion.
“That’s not possible,” Bates states as Tate steps forward.
“Does someone want to tell me what the fuck is going on? How do you know this guy?”
I toss the book on the table, leaving it open on the page that shows the man they know as Garrett with his arm thrown over his brother’s shoulder. His twin brother. His other hand rests on the shoulder of a little boy.
“The man you call Garrett is a man the club knew as Coil and the one I used to call Father.”
I drop the bombshell before the room erupts into chaos.
“Shut the fuck up,” Bates finally roars, making everyone quiet down.
“It can’t be the same person. I slit Coil’s throat my fucking self. His blood spilled over my hands,” Bates admits, making me wince. Not because it was my dad, the fucker deserved it, but because he just admitted that shit in front of two cops.
“And he died here?” Tate asks, not reacting to Bates’s confession at all.
“No, he was dumped in the desert.”
“Then the cut wasn’t as deep as you thought, or he would have been dead before he even made it there. Someone helped him.”
“None of this matters right now. Think, where would he take Reign?” Tate glares at me.
“His life was the clubhouse. I don’t remember ever going anywhere significant with him. You?” I ask the guys, but they shake their heads as the frustration mounts. I stare at the picture in front of me and frown, picking it up and studying it.
“What? What is it?” Owen asks, watching me.
“The building behind us. I remember this place. It’s an abandoned church. I remember my dad saying something about him going there when he was a kid, but it had been vacant for years when he took me. There’s a cemetery there. He said it’s where my grandmother is, but I don’t remember ever visiting her grave.” I strain to pull up more, but it was a long time ago.
Owen pulls out his phone, snapping a photo of the picture before calling someone. He lets them speak, listening patiently before firing off questions and answers. He’s on it for ten long-ass minutes before hanging up.
“The coordinates are being sent now. It’s called the All Saints Chapel. It was home to and subsequently abandoned by a cult who called themselves the untainted. Many of the members were arrested for rape, kidnapping, and imprisonment, among other things. It seems your grandfather was the deacon there. He killed himself before they could question him. There is no record of what happened to your grandmother, no death certificate was ever filed for her.”
His phone dings with a text message.
“Let’s go!” he yells, running from the room, each of us following after him.
We all mount our bikes while Tate and Kayden climb into a lifted red truck and follow behind, breaking every speed limit set.
I feel sick to my stomach, knowing what kind of blood courses through me. Knowing I’ve touched Reign with dirty hands where evil blood flows through my veins almost has me pulling over and puking. Only the driving need to find her and bring her home helps me keep my shit together.
It takes twenty minutes to get there, and like the shack she was initially taken to, it’s hidden and easily missed unless you know where to look.
We pull up and cut off our engines, the silence feeling ominous, now the roar of the bikes has stopped.
Tate takes point calling out orders, and as much as it bristles, this is what he does for a living. We would be stupid to ignore him for the sake of our pride. Besides, if anyone cares about Reign as much as we do, it’s Tate and Owen.
We follow his command while he trusts us to have his back like he would his own team. Mutual respect born from tragedy makes