The diner went silent.

Even the man in the denim jacket stopped walking.

The old biker stared at the girl, his hand slowly curling around the edge of the table.

“Rose is dead,” he whispered.

The girl shook her head hard.

“No. She told me you’d say that.”

His breathing changed.

The young man stepped closer.

“She’s confused,” he said. “Let me take her home.”

The girl grabbed the biker’s vest with both hands.

“No.”

The old biker didn’t look away from her.

“Where is Rose?”

The girl’s lips trembled.

“She’s hiding.”

The young man’s jaw tightened.

The old biker noticed.

So did every man in the diner.

The girl reached into her pocket and pulled out a small folded note, damp and dirty from the rain.

She placed it in the biker’s hand.

He opened it slowly.

Whatever was written there made his face lose all color.

The young man whispered,

“Don’t read that.”

The old biker looked up.

His eyes were wet now.

“She knew my real name.”

The girl nodded.

“Mom said only her brother would know why she ran.”

The diner froze.

The biker looked at the girl again.

Not like a stranger anymore.

Like family.

Then the girl whispered,

“She said the man chasing us is the reason everyone thinks she died.”