She Defended a Lonely Biker, and Her Town Never Saw It Coming

with his grandson.

Mrs. Worthington, pretending she just happened to be passing by at seven-fifteen with a casserole dish.

And behind them, parked along the curb, three motorcycles.

Then five.

Then seven.

Word had spread farther than Willow Creek.

Not the ugly version this time.

The true one, or something close enough to it that the truth could breathe.

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