The boy was the only one crying.
Around the gravestone, a long line of bikers stood in perfect silence. Black vests. Patches. Arms crossed. No one spoke.
In front of the stone, an older man with a long grey braid and a black bandana knelt on one knee. His name patch read “DRAVEN — PRESIDENT.”
Across from him stood a small boy in an orange t-shirt, holding a delicate pearl necklace between his fingers.
The man’s voice was rough.
“Why do you have this? The one she never took off.”
The boy looked down at the necklace, then back up at the man.
“She gave it to me in case she didn’t come back.”
He carefully opened the clasp with small fingers. Inside the hollow compartment was a tiny folded piece of paper and something metallic.
The boy continued, his voice quiet but clear.
“She said if they buried her anyway… I should show you what’s inside.”
The man’s eyes dropped to the open necklace. His face changed.
The boy looked straight at him.
“She said you’d know who killed her.”
The wind moved through the grass.
No one in the line of bikers moved.