Finn listens without interrupting, his expression neutral but his eyes sharp with that tactical assessment I recognize from my own training.
When I finish, he's quiet for a long moment. Then he says, "You're asking me to help you investigate and go to locations where whoever killed Tom might be operating."
"Yes."
"People with federal protection and resources we can't match."
"Yes."
"And you can't tell me more without putting me at greater risk than I'm already in just by sitting here with you."
I meet his gaze directly. "I've told you everything that matters. Everything except names I don't know and connections I haven't proven. Tom's files might give us those pieces. The next site might confirm even more of what he suspected. But I can't guarantee your safety if you help me. I can only promise that what we're doing is worth the risk."
"No more lies," Finn says. Not a question. A condition. "From this point forward, if we're doing this, we're partners. That means full transparency. If you discover something, I need toknow. If you're planning something, I need to be in the loop. This only works if we trust each other."
Trust. The word hangs between us like a promise I'm not sure I can keep. But I nod anyway because the alternative is continuing alone, and alone isn't working anymore.
"Full transparency," I agree. "Starting with tomorrow's run. We leave early?"
"Six in the morning. That gives us daylight to work with and time to get back before roads become completely impassable." He pauses, studying me. "You said you’d bring files. Evidence you've been gathering. I need to see what we're actually dealing with before we head out tomorrow."
"Everything's on my laptop and external drives."
"Then grab them and come with me. My cabin's got better security than the lodge, and we can spread everything out without Mara accidentally walking in on classified FBI materials." His mouth quirks slightly. "Plus I've got a better map of that region than anything you'll find online."
The offer makes sense tactically, but my pulse kicks anyway. Going to his cabin means trusting him completely, putting myself in an isolated location with a man I've known for two days. Every instinct I've developed over years of running screams that this is how fugitives get caught.
But Finn isn't setting a trap. He's offering partnership, asking to see the full picture before he risks his life helping me. That's not just reasonable, it's smart.
"Okay," I say. "Give me five minutes to grab everything."
I head inside while Finn waits in the truck, engine idling to keep the heat running. Mara looks up when I pass the desk, and I give her what I hope is a casual smile.
"Heading out for a bit. Might be late getting back."
"Be careful," she says, that same concerned expression crossing her face. "Roads are getting worse."
"I will."
In my room, I grab my camera, pack the laptop, and drives into my messenger bag along with Tom's photographs and the notes I've compiled over three years. Everything that could prove my innocence or get me killed fits into one canvas bag. Ten pounds of files. Three dead agents and one murdered investigator reduced to digital evidence.
Finn's cabin sits two miles outside town, accessible by a narrow road that winds through dense forest. The truck handles the terrain easily, four-wheel drive engaging automatically when the incline steepens. No other vehicles pass us. No lights visible except the glow from Finn's headlights cutting through falling snow.
"Built it myself," Finn says, nodding toward the structure that appears through the trees. "Took one summer and most of my savings, but it's solid."
The cabin is exactly what I'd expect from him. Functional, well-maintained, built to withstand Alaska winters without unnecessary decoration. One story, timber construction, a covered porch that wraps around two sides. Smoke rises from the chimney, which means he left a fire burning before he came to get me.
Inside, the space is warm and surprisingly comfortable. Main living area with a wood stove radiating heat, kitchen barely big enough for one person, a door that presumably leads to the bedroom. Everything is clean and organized with military precision. No clutter, no wasted space, just exactly what's needed and nothing more.
"Coffee?" Finn asks, already moving toward the kitchen.
"Please."
While he works, I start unpacking my laptop and drives. My hands shake slightly as I arrange everything, and I force them tosteady. This is it. The moment where I show another person the entirety of what I've been building alone for three years.
Finn sets two mugs on the table and settles into the chair next to mine. "Show me."
I open the first file. Tom Rearden's official reports, sanitized and approved for Bureau review. "These are what the DOJ pulled today. Nothing in them explains why he died, but look at the pattern." I walk him through the gaps, the cases that went nowhere, the leads that dried up. "Every time Tom got close to something, the investigation stalled."
