Loans. Interest. Penalties.
Tyler's name on every single one.
"That's—" My voice cracks. "There has to be a mistake."
"Look at the dates." Frost's voice is gentle, which somehow makes it worse. "This goes back eighteen months."
I scroll through the transactions with numb fingers. Five hundred dollars here. Two thousand there. Ten thousand. Five thousand. Cash advances and loans and payments missed.
Over and over and over.
"That's not possible." But I can see the dates. Can see Tyler's account numbers. His social security number. His digital signature on loan agreements.
"Los Serpientes cartel." Frost points to a series of wire transfers. "Six months ago. First loan for eighty thousand. Couldn't pay it back. Interest compounded. Borrowed another hundred thousand to cover the first debt."
The numbers swim in front of me. "One hundred and eighty thousand dollars."
"Yeah."
"Tyler owes a cartel one hundred and eighty thousand dollars."
"Yeah."
My laugh comes out broken. "No. Tyler doesn't gamble. He doesn't—he's my baby brother. I raised him. I know him." But I can see the dates. Can see his account numbers. His social security number. His digital signature is on loan agreements.
"You knew who you thought he was." Frost pulls out the chair across from me and sits down. "People change. Especially when they're desperate."
"So what are you saying?" My voice is rising, and I can't stop it. "You're saying Tyler what—borrowed money from a cartel? Got in over his head? And then what? They just happened to kidnap both of us?"
"They didn't kidnap Tyler."
The words land like a physical blow.
"What?"
"Think about it." He leans forward, his eyes steady on mine. "Both signatures required on that trust fund. Four hundred thousand dollars. Tyler owes one-eighty. What's he got if he gets you to sign?"
"Two hundred and twenty thousand dollars." The math is automatic, mechanical. "But that doesn't—hewouldn't?—"
"You weren't kidnapped because of what you know." Frost's voice is quiet and absolute. "You arecollateralfor what Tyler owes. And that trust fund? That's how he planned to pay them back. With your signature."
The room tilts. I grip the edge of the table, knuckles white.
"No." But it comes out as a whisper. "Tyler wouldn't do that. He's my brother. He—I took care of him. After my Mother died, I gave up college and went into the military so Tyler could stay in school. I made sure he had everything he needed. I?—"
I'm on my feet without remembering standing. The chair scrapes against concrete, too loud in the sudden ringing in my ears. Frost is saying something, but I can't hear him through the rushing sound like static, like white noise, like my brain is trying very hard not to process what I just learned.
"Maggie—"
I shake my head. Can't. Can't do this here. Can't fall apart in front of this stranger who saved my life while my brother—while Tyler?—
My stomach heaves.
I make it to the bathroom before everything comes up.
Kneeling on cracked linoleum that probably hasn't been cleaned in years, hands gripping the toilet bowl, heaving until there's nothing left. Just bile and betrayal and the taste of copper from where I bit my tongue.
Tyler sold me.
