Chapter 2 - A NAME FROM THE GRAVE
Jonah’s coffee mug stopped four inches from his lower lip.
The steam rose continuously between his eyes and the small girl standing beside his seat. For two full seconds, nobody in the booth moved. The low rumble of conversation between Russell and Micah evaporated instantly into thin air. Every single one of the five bikers seated around the table froze, their eyes locking onto the child standing at their elbow.
Jonah slowly, deliberately lowered the ceramic mug back to its saucer. The porcelain clicked softly against the Formica table.
He rested both forearms flat on the wood, bringing the outstretched raven tattoo into plain sight beneath the overhead fluorescent lights. His dark eyes narrowed, searching the child’s delicate features—the slant of her brow, the shape of her jaw, the faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
"What’s your father’s name?" Jonah asked. His voice was low, gravelly, and stripped of all casual warmth.
Emma swallowed hard. She clutched her backpack straps tighter, her small chest rising and falling beneath the heavy oversized denim jacket.
"Daniel Mercer," she said.
The entire booth froze as if struck by a physical blow.
Russell’s heavy hand, which had been reaching for a salt shaker, halted in mid-air. He slowly turned his head to look directly at Jonah, his eyes wide behind his graying brows. Across the table, Micah stopped chewing his breakfast entirely, his fork hovering three inches above his plate as his face paled under his weathered skin. The three other bikers shifted in their seats, exchanging frantic, unreadable glances.
"Daniel?" Jonah repeated, the name tearing out from his chest like a ghost dragged into the morning sunlight.
Without a word, Emma unbuckled the front clasp of her faded maroon backpack. Her small fingers dug into the main compartment, pulling out a faded, square photograph. The edges of the paper were creased, yellowed, and soft from years of handling.
She slid the photograph across the slick surface of the red table, directly into the space between Jonah’s elbows.
The image was unmistakable. Seven young men stood shoulder-to-shoulder in front of a line of dark motorcycles parked along a dirt turnout overlooking the Susquehanna River. They were laughing, young, and unburdened, wearing matching leather vests with early versions of the raven emblem. Second from the left stood a broad-shouldered man with a bright, easy smile, an arm wrapped around a younger Jonah’s shoulders.
It was Daniel Mercer.
Jonah’s fingers trembled as he slowly reached out and picked up the photograph by its corners. He held it up to the daylight, his thumb carefully avoiding the faces of the men in the picture.
Emma looked down at the floor, her voice dropping an octave.
"My mom found it after he died," she whispered.
Jonah snapped his head up, his dark eyes locking onto her face with terrifying intensity.
"When?" Jonah demanded.
May you like
"Three weeks ago," Emma said softly.
Jonah stood up so fast his thighs slammed hard into the underside of the fixed table. His half-full mug of coffee tipped over, sending a dark, hot surge of liquid spilling across the laminate surface, soaking into the edge of the old photograph before Russell frantically pulled the paper back into safety.
