“I know who you are. I made some calls last night.” He glanced at the army of bikers behind him. “We all did.”
He held out the envelope.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Open it.”
My hands were shaking. I broke the seal and pulled out a stack of papers. The first page had a letterhead I recognized instantly – St. Mercy Children’s Hospital. But the second page was from an organization I’d never heard of. And the third page was a cashier’s check with a number on it that made my knees buckle.
I looked up at Clutch. “I don’t understand. Why would you—”
“Because my daughter died in that hospital seven years ago,” he said. His silver eyes were wet. “And the only person who held her hand every single night was a nurse named Colleen Pollard.”
The street went blurry. My mom made a sound behind me.
Clutch leaned closer and said five words that changed everything.
“She told me what you did.”
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