𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲

Chapter 79

— Chapter 79 —
The Dregs

=||=||=

N O A H

"I did some asking around," Chains told me in the parking lot of Crave. "His name was Dylan Weller. The boys in Mayhem called him Dregs. Thirty-two years old. A retired boxer, from the west end. I knew him, man. He threw a mean right hook."

Nausea settled in the pit of my stomach.

We were barely a few feet from the crumpled lamp pole sitting in the corner of the sidewalk. Shattered glass and metal debris lay scattered all over the gravel. A line of police tape squared off the accident scene from onlookers, but that hadn't stopped people from crossing over to lay their flowers. Someone had died here, and I swore that if I squinted tight enough, I could see the final rays of evening sunlight reflecting off small splatters of blood.

"What have you heard?" I asked.

"He was racing with three other riders around midnight last night. Cops put out an APB on the bikes, but no hits yet." Chains saw me plucking out a cigarette while he explained the situation, and offered me a light. "They're saying Dregs hit about 80 miles an hour before he lost control and hit the sidewalk. Ran through two pedestrians—a young couple—and crashed into that lamppost. Helmet flew off and his head cracked open on the gravel. Onlookers came to help, but... he was dead before the cops even arrived on scene."

I could picture it all too clearly in my head as the smoke flittered from my lips. "And the couple?"

"Both died in the emergency room a few hours later."

Christ.

"Did they find anything wrong with the bike?" I questioned.

"Unlikely." He scratched the back of his head. "Besides, you'd have to dig through a million tiny pieces to find evidence of foul play. The thing's fucking unsalvageable. It's a shame, man. Heard it was brand new."

This doesn't make any fucking sense.

I peeled my eyes around the parking lot. There weren't any police officers around—I didn't expect any to begin with, considering how many hours had passed since the accident. Walking over and hunkering down beneath the crime scene tape, I stole myself a better look at the situation.

Blood.

The drops were so tiny that I'd nearly missed them. On reflex, my hand struck out. Crimson liquid invaded clean skin as I smeared the blood with two fingers. The shadow of Chains' figure loomed over me as he watched.

I barely noticed him, too absorbed in the memories flashing into my line of sight.

There's blood on your hands.

A cold shiver tickled its way down the tips of my spine. I kept seeing my hands—mine, but years younger—coated in liquid crimson. My heart clenched; my hands shook. The tremor was strong enough to dust the cinders off my cigarette. Fuck.

I couldn't shake myself out of the daze until Chains muttered, "You think they'd have cleaned it up by now."

Pressing the cigarette to my lips, I pulled in a deep inhale of viscid air and tried to clear my head.