His gut fisted, and he lowered his eyes to the floor, blazing a path to the closet, gutted at the sight of her guitar. Sit and sing with me, Dezzie. He shoved that memory down deep, storming past the guitar, and yanked boxes from the closet shelves. He rummaged through knickknacks, books, more childhood drawings, Popsicle stick figures, and handmade ornaments, memories of his mother’s excitement when he’d given her those gifts pecking at him like woodpeckers. Jesus. He tossed box after box to the floor, dug through coat pockets and drawers, until he’d gone through every last thing. In a fit of anger, he pushed the dresser over, his heart stopping at the sight of a thick red journal duct-taped to the bottom of it.

Hit with an onslaught of disbelief, he fell to his knees, unable to do more than stare at it. Guilt pummeled him. His mother was allowed to have secrets. He gritted his teeth against the voice in his head telling him to get on his motorcycle and drive until he could no longer feel—and then keep going until he was so fucking numb he’d never be able to feel again.

But Tracey’s beautiful face appeared before him, her sweet smile tugging at the parts of him he’d thought had long ago died, her trusting eyes reminding him of all the reasons not to follow that voice in his head. He’d spent a lifetime boxing himself out of the lives of everyone who had cared about him so he’d never get hurt again. He didn’t want to live like that anymore. He wanted a life with Tracey, with friends, building memories, a future. But after all she’d been through, she deserved a man free from demons. A man who knew who he was, and if Diesel knew one thing about himself, it was that he wouldn’t sleep until he knew the truth.

He tugged the journal free, tearing off the tape as he pushed to his feet and pacing as he opened the cover, gutted anew at the sight of his mother’s swirly handwriting. He swallowed hard, trying to stop a lump from forming in his throat as he turned the pages, entering his mother’s private world.