Samantha Snow will have a lot to answer for before she leaves the valley.

The roads are slick; usually, I'd be concerned about my motorcycle, especially at these speeds, but I can't think about that right now. Behind the tinted shield of my helmet, I can hardly make out the twisty road; this is the helmet I reserve for sunny days, and this morning was the brightest day we'd had this spring.

 I'd picnicked by myself in a little grove not far from the club I had spent most of my time in before I had made my stupid mistake. I'd brought my easel and one of my expensive canvases. I'd hoped that spring would harbor new beginnings for me.

For a few moments, it did. The warmth of a new sun massaged circles into my back. It whispered that though many things were broken, many new things would grow. Me, painting slow and methodically, each stroke as if it were the very first time I had created. That original joy. Those happy sparks.

Then I saw the police cars, bands of them. Their sirens tore me from my headspace and in the distance, I could make them out, wrapping the club. My heart leaped into my throat and I swear to God I choked on it. I had always prioritized protecting that club, keeping the wily (and sometimes not always lawful) people inside it safe. The club had been a haven. I had trusted, even after...everything, that Sammy would keep it safe. It had been her grandmother's. Her grandmother had chosen Samantha as housemother; I had only been the muscle, after all.

But she'd failed.

After the police raid, I walked the club. Locks chained the doors shut, but I had my tools. The projector set had been overturned, the abstract art that lined the walls (some of it mine), laced the floor. It struck me how small the abandoned building we'd taken over actually was.

And now it was full of ghosts.

I left that place and raced to Samantha's house. I had planned to confront her there, but I saw her through the dining room window, clinking glasses with a man, laughing. Laughing. After the obliteration of everything we were supposed to hold dear. I returned to my motorcycle, the darkened sky not lost on me. I glanced back and saw the man wrapping her in a shawl. I had a feeling I knew where they'd go.

Bringing me here.

Lightning flashes behind me, illuminating the hillside and the gnarled trees that have begun a small springtime transformation with little green leaves. The turn is so steep that I lose her taillights for a second. And then they come back as the hill slopes sharply down into the valley.

What does a woman trapped in the past drive? A black Volkswagon beetle, restored to a glorious polished sheen. It looks almost invisible against the night sky. I hate it.

The valley is lined with sharp rocks, the road cutting far too close to the river for most drivers' comfort, but Sammy and I both independently loved it. Especially with the rain; a dangerous challenge.

An even more dangerous challenge? Cutting her off. A surge of speed from me; I briefly gun it to 90. I pull ahead with enough time to drop my speed to take a sharp L. I clutch the front brake and kick the back one, putting me at a perfect perpendicular to her car.

Her brakes squeal. I eye down her headlights like I'm staring down a person. I'm close enough to see her enraged face and the pale one of the man she brought with her through the windshield. She opens the door and stomps out.

"You fucking idiot! What the hell are you thinking? Were you trying to get me to hydroplane and kill us both?"

"What kind of housemother are you? Allowing the club to be raided like that?"

"Allowing?" She throws up her hands. "I didn't allow it to happen. How did you expect me to return to the place we met after you....you..." Her whole face is red. I've never seen her this angry. "I can hardly bring myself to say it! You left me Esther. Who leaves a bride at the altar?"

I expected her to be mad. It's the shittiest thing I've ever done. After a whirlwind affair, she produced a simple gold ring, and I said yes. It would be a small wedding at a local church. But when that day came, when I was all dolled up in white, I couldn't do it. I was a punk. I bashed people's heads in with guitars. I was not, and could never be, a wife. 

We haven't spoken since.

"Look, I know. And I'm sorry. But we have to do something! We have to save the club."

"That part of my life is over. Thank yourself for that."

I can't have that. I grab her shoulders. Maybe a little too hard. "No! You have to do something."

Her hand comes up. She punches me. Hard. I hit the ground for a second, the world spinning. And then I pop back up, my fists raised. I'm seeing red. I'm going to do something I'll regret, I know it.

That's when I hear the tell-tale click of a gun.

Sammy's companion is standing beside the car, holding a giant revolver. The Judge. I used to carry one in my purse.

"Are you a religious woman?" His eyes are wide. The definition of a man with a twitchy trigger finger.

I sneer at him, my hand suddenly fisted in Sammy's shirt. "Oh, let's just say I have no reason to fear evil. The goddamn shadow is mine, and so is the valley."

This perhaps is not the best response. There's a sound like a world being blown out the neck of a bottle and then blood comes running down my shirt.

"I did love you, Sammy," I offer before my world is subsumed in pain.