I knew something was wrong before I even stepped out of my truck, because the garage door was open and the patch of concrete where my Harley had sat for six years was empty.
Chapter 1
For a few seconds, I simply stared.
The tool cabinets were still there. My workbench was still covered with sockets, polishing cloths, and the half-disassembled carburetor I had promised myself I would finally organize. Even the forgotten bag of grass seed I had bought in April was sitting untouched beside the wall.
But the motorcycle was gone.
Not borrowed. Not moved to the other side of the garage. Gone.
That Harley was not something I had purchased from a dealership and ridden home that afternoon. I had spent more than two years building it piece by piece. I rebuilt the engine with my friend Marcus, rewired half the electrical system after learning several painful lessons involving smoke, painted the tank myself in a deep burgundy that looked black after sunset, and spent an embarrassing amount of money on chrome.
My accountant once studied my receipts and asked whether I was building transportation or having a midlife crisis ten years early.
I told him both could be true.
My name is Red Mercer. I was thirty-five and worked as a dermatologist in Columbus, Ohio. Until that Thursday evening, the strangest emergency in my professional life had involved a man who attempted to remove a mole with dental floss and a soldering iron.
Then my younger brother stole my Harley.
I called my father because my parents had a spare key to my house. Dad occasionally stopped by while I was at work, usually to borrow drill bits he never returned.
He answered on the fourth ring.
“Hey, Dr. Lotion.”
“Dad, where’s my motorcycle?”
“Oh. Cody took it.”
I waited.
Dad said nothing else.
“What do you mean, Cody took it?”
“He needed it.”
“For what?”
“To impress a girl.”
He said this the way another father might explain that his son had borrowed a rake.
I closed my eyes.
“Dad, Cody does not have permission to ride my motorcycle.”
“He knows how.”
“He crashed a rental scooter into a fountain in Tampa.”
“That fountain was poorly placed.”
“It was in the middle of a plaza.”
Dad sighed. “Red, don’t get worked up. He said he’d bring it back.”
“When?”
“Tonight, probably.”
Probably.
My brother Cody was twenty-nine years old. I need that fact understood. He was not nineteen, newly independent, or going through some adolescent rebellion.
He was twenty-nine.
This was a man who once financed a hot tub despite living on the second floor of an apartment building. The delivery company took one look at the staircase and refused to unload it. Cody still made payments for nine months.
I called him.
No answer.
I texted: Where is my bike?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then a photograph came through.
Cody was sitting on my Harley outside a rooftop bar wearing sunglasses after dark and a leather vest I had never seen. Beside him stood a platinum-blond woman holding up a peace sign.
Bro, relax. Making memories.
I called immediately.
Declined.
Another text appeared.
Can’t talk. Social situation.
Bring my motorcycle home now.
You’re killing the vibe.
Then:
She thinks it’s mine, so don’t be weird if she asks.
I stared at the message long enough to wonder whether medical school had failed to prepare me for this exact moment.
At eleven that night, the Harley still had not returned.
At midnight, I called Dad again.
“He’ll bring it back.”
“He said tonight.”
“You know Cody. His nights work differently.”
That sentence had excused most of my brother’s adult life.
You know Cody.
Cody borrowed our grandmother’s mobility scooter to use the Taco Bell drive-thru.
You know Cody.
Cody tried to launch an exotic-fish investment club.
You know Cody.
Cody rented a smoke machine for Thanksgiving because he believed turkey carving needed “atmosphere.”
I did know Cody.
That was exactly why I didn’t sleep.
The next morning, he finally called while I was between patients.
“Dr. Butt-Freckle!”
“Where is my motorcycle?”
“Good morning to you too.”
“Cody.”
“All right, all right. There was a complication.”
Every sentence beginning with there was a complication becomes terrifying when my brother is speaking.
“What complication?”
“Bambi wanted to go to Cincinnati.”
I froze.
“You took my Harley to Cincinnati?”
“It sounds worse when you say it like that.”
“There is no good way to say it.”
“She has a friend opening a holistic candle studio.”
I shut my office door.
“What does that have to do with my motorcycle?”
“Nothing directly.”
That answer nearly gave me a cardiac event.
He promised Saturday.
Saturday became Sunday.
Sunday became traffic is insane.
Then the battery is acting weird.
Then Bambi’s cousin knows motorcycles.
Then, somehow, it’s actually safer where it is right now.
When I asked for the address, he accused me of interrogating him.
Monday evening, I drove to my parents’ house.
Dad was grilling hamburgers. Mom was slicing tomatoes. Cody was nowhere to be found.
“If my bike is not home tonight, I’m reporting it stolen.”
Mom looked horrified.
“Red Velvet, you would call the police on your own brother?”
“If my own brother steals a motorcycle worth more than twenty thousand dollars, yes.”
“He borrowed it.”
“Borrowing usually involves permission.”
Dad flipped a burger. “You doctors are dramatic.”
“You once called animal control because a raccoon stared at you.”
“It was acting suspicious.”
“It was a raccoon.”
Mom touched my arm.
“Cody is going through a difficult time.”
Cody had been going through a difficult time continuously since he was thirteen.
At sixteen, he stole Dad’s credit card to buy a six-foot fiberglass shark.
At twenty-two, he joined a pyramid scheme selling mushroom coffee.
At twenty-six, he lost four thousand dollars trying to start a French bulldog breeding business despite owning no French bulldogs.
“What difficult time?”
“He’s trying to figure out his future.”
“He’s twenty-nine.”
“People mature at different speeds.”
“Glaciers move faster.”
Dad pointed the spatula at me. “Don’t insult your brother.”
“I haven’t even started.”
That night, I filed a police report.
I did not want Cody in jail. I wanted the Harley back before he drove it into the Ohio River, traded it for a timeshare, or somehow involved livestock.
The officer taking my report stared at me over his monitor.
“Your brother’s name?”
“Cody Mercer.”
“And you are?”
“Red Mercer.”
“Red?”
“Yes.”
“Any nicknames?”
I sighed. “None relevant to law enforcement.”
Tuesday morning, I was eating breakfast when Marcus sent me a Facebook Marketplace link.
His text said: Tell me this isn’t yours.
It was.
My Harley.
Fourteen photographs.
Listed for $9,500.
Nine thousand five hundred dollars.
I became offended in stages.
First, Cody had stolen my motorcycle.
Second, he was selling it.
Third, the idiot had undervalued it by at least ten thousand dollars.
The description read:
CUSTOM HARLEY. VERY RARE. CELEBRITY STYLE. FAST. LOUD. WOMEN NOTICE YOU IMMEDIATELY. BUILT BY PROFESSIONAL DOCTOR ENGINEER. NO LOWBALLERS. I KNOW WHAT I HAVE.
Professional doctor engineer.
I stared at those words for a full thirty seconds.
Then I noticed the seller.
Cody Cash King Mercer.
My brother had apparently rebranded himself.
In six photographs, Bambi sat on the bike. In one, Cody was shirtless. In another, he pointed at the engine like he had personally invented internal combustion.
The last photograph showed him beside my motorcycle giving two thumbs up.
READY FOR NEW OWNER. NEED FUNDS FOR BUSINESS OPPORTUNITY.
I did not call Mom.
I did not call Dad.
I did not call Cody.
I called Detective Thomas Harper, whose number was listed on my report.
I sent him the Marketplace link.
Ten minutes later, he called me back.
“That’s your motorcycle?”
“Yes.”
“You have the title?”
“Yes.”
“VIN?”
“Yes.”
“Receipts?”
“Enough to wallpaper your office.”
“And your brother listed it publicly under his own account?”
“Yes.”
There was a long pause.
Then Detective Harper asked, “Is your brother all right?”
“That depends entirely on how generous your definition is.”
He told me not to contact Cody.
An undercover account would message him pretending to be a buyer.
Cody answered in under two minutes.
That was faster than he had responded to me all week.
The buyer asked why the motorcycle was priced so low.
Cody replied:
Need liquid capital ASAP. Launching luxury lifestyle brand.
The detective sent me a screenshot.
Then another.
The buyer had asked what kind of brand.
Cody answered:
Can’t disclose before NDA. Imagine Red Bull meets Gucci meets emotional wellness.
I put down my coffee.
And for the first time since the Harley disappeared, I stopped worrying that my brother would simply sell it.
Because I suddenly understood he was planning something much worse.
