The interstate hummed beneath me, a steady vibration that had settled into my bones over the last three months. I was Jackson “Iron” Miller, President of the Iron Saints Motorcycle Club, but for the last ninety days, I had just been a ghost on the highway.
I’d been organizing the “Ride for Hope,” a massive charity run spanning three states to raise money for pediatric prosthetics. It was grueling work—sleeping in roadside motels that smelled of stale smoke, eating diner food that sat like lead in my stomach, and missing the one person who mattered most.
Maya.
My twelve-year-old daughter.
