“I’m thinking rich men don’t like being told no. And Clay Stroud got told no by a Coleman with a big fat Sharpie across a dotted line.”
Gray exhales through his teeth. “I can pull some of it from public records. The rest I’ll have to dig for. Might be morning before I have anything solid.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be up.”
“No, you won’t,” he says, all boss now. “You’ll sleep. I need you sharp, not cooked.”
“I’m not?—”
“Don’t finish that sentence. You sound like me five years ago, and I was an idiot.”
I rub a hand over my face.
He softens a notch. “We’ll look into Stroud. In the meantime, eyes open. Ears open. Don’t let your… history with Delaney cloud your judgment.”
“Too late,” I say, honest because lying to him is a waste of both our time.
He’s quiet.
“I figured,” he says finally. “Just remember: mission first. Her safety is the mission. Not your second chance.”
The words land where they’re supposed to.
“I know,” I say.
“Good. Now go do what I pay you for—make bad people uncomfortable.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hangs up.
I slide my phone into my pocket and turn toward the dark pasture. The ranch stretches out like a living thing, breathing slow. I can almost feel the heartbeat of it in my feet. I start walking.
Habit. Training. Obsession.
Call it what you want.
I move along the edge of the yard, past the barn, toward the south line. My red-lens flashlight sifts through shadows, turning them into information.
Fence holds.
Gate’s latched.
The area where we fixed the wire looks untouched.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out.
Sinclair. My brother.
I hit accept. “What’s up?”
“Nash, I found something you might want to take a closer look at.”
“What’s that?”
He pauses, and I can hear him breathing. “It’s about Dad.”
Fuck.
