Chapter 3 - A Knock at Dawn
The next morning broke with a cool, misty sunrise over the valley. The rural town was slow to wake, but the quiet was interrupted by a light, rhythmic knocking at Bennett’s front door. Expecting the local authorities to follow up on the previous night’s report, Bennett opened the door, only to find an unexpected visitor standing on the porch.
It was an eight-year-old boy. He wore a scuffed jacket that was slightly too large for him and worn sneakers covered in dry mud. His big hazel eyes looked up at Bennett with a mix of fear and determination. In his small hands, he held a folded piece of paper.
"Are you Bennett?" the boy asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I am," Bennett replied, lowering himself to eye level. "Who are you, little guy?"
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"My name is Toby," the boy said, clutching the paper closer to his chest. "My mom told me to come here if anything bad happened to Jax. She said you were the only person who knew the whole story."
Bennett’s expression softened. Jax was the older biker who had been swept into the darkness of the local syndicate—the very man connected to the photograph. Looking at Toby, Bennett realized the cycle of pain had not started with the criminal standoff; it had started years earlier with abandonment and secrets.
