The next morning, I arrived at Lawson Customs before eight, and for once, I wasn't thinking about Victor, Charlotte, or the recording that had changed everything.
I was thinking about work.
The replacement window had been installed, the damaged fencing was secure again, and the motorcycles that had been hit during the attack were lined up along the service bays waiting for repairs.
It wasn't perfect, but it was getting there.
I had just finished making coffee when I heard a vehicle pull into the parking lot.
I looked through the front window, and my stomach tightened when I saw Charles Lawson step out of his car.
Alone.
He stood beside the vehicle for several seconds as though he was gathering the courage to walk inside, and that alone told me this wasn't going to be another convers
