THE WOMAN ON THE BRIDGE

He looked at the helmet.

Then at her.

“Your brother rode?”

She nodded.

“He was hit by a car.”

Cole crouched beside the damaged helmet.

There was a deep scrape across the side.

But there was something else.

A small piece of black plastic was wedged inside the broken visor.

Cole pulled it out.

It looked like part of a vehicle's side mirror.

He looked toward the road.

“Did the police find this?”

The woman shook her head.

“They said the driver wasn't there when they arrived.”

Cole stared at the fragment.

The woman's eyes widened.

“You think someone left?”

Cole stood.

“I think you shouldn't assume this was an accident.”

She looked at him.

For the first time since he'd arrived, there was something other than grief in her eyes.

Hope.

Or maybe anger.

“What do I do?”

Cole looked toward his motorcycle.

“First, you get off this bridge.”

She hesitated.

Then climbed back over the guardrail.

Cole walked to her car and checked the tires.

One of them was nearly flat.

“You shouldn't drive this.”

She looked at him.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Cole pulled his phone from his pocket.

“I'll call someone.”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't trust anyone.”

Cole looked at her for a moment.

Then he quietly said:

“You trusted me enough to climb down.”

She looked at him.

He was right.

The woman finally nodded.

“I'm Hannah.”

“Cole.”

“I know.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She pointed toward his motorcycle.

“Your name is written on it.”

Cole almost smiled.

Almost.