“What the fuck are you two doing?” Brooke’s voice rises, attracting a few curious glances from nearby spectators. “Why did you put my cup in a bag?”
“Brooke,” I say calmly, “we need your help with something.”
Her eyes slip between us, suspicious and increasingly alarmed. “Yeah? What’s that? And I’m not inclined to help you after whatever the fuck that was. Why did you take my cup?”
Time for the gamble.
“Look,” I say, keeping my voice low enough that the people around us can’t hear. “We saw the video. Of you spiking Seth Benton’s drink at the Spur a few nights ago.”
The change in her expression is instantaneous. Her face goes pale, her eyes widening for just a fraction of a second before she schools her features back into defiance.
But that fraction of a second is all I need to see the truth.
I exchange a quick glance with Hazel, a silent confirmation that we’re on the right track. She gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” Brooke says, but her voice has lost its edge. “I’m not from this town. I don’t know any Seth.”
“Funny, as his face and name are plastered all over this arena,” Hazel says, pulling out her phone and scrolling to something. “And I have a picture of you stalking his friends at the carnival. You were in the background of their photo booth pictures, taking photos of them on your phone. Super subtle, by the way.”
She turns the screen to show Brooke. I can’t see the image from this angle, but I see Brooke’s jaw tighten.
“You’ve got the wrong girl.”
“No, we really don’t.” I step closer, lowering my voice further. “See, the cops already have the video. They also have the glass you touched at the bar, the one with your fingerprint on it. The only reason they haven’t arrested you yet is because your prints aren’t in any database.” I’m lying through my teeth about most of this. The cops only have the video, and I have no idea if they collected the glass or if fingerprints are even viable evidence at this point. But Brooke doesn’t know that.
Brooke’s face goes from pale to almost gray.
“But now we have this.” I gesture toward Hazel’s bag, where the cup is safely stashed. “Your name. Your prints. All we have to do is hand it over, and they can match it to the glass from the Spur. After that?” I shrug. “Well. Spiking someone’s drink is a felony in Montana. You’re looking at serious time.”
Judging by the dread blooming across her features, she believes every word.
“Look,” Hazel says, her tone shifting to something almost sympathetic. “If you just confess, they might go easier on you. Cooperation counts for a lot with prosecutors. But if they have to track you down, drag you in, do all the work themselves?” She shakes her head. “That’s when they throw the book at you.”
“Why do you even care?” Brooke’s voice cracks. “What’s it to you?”
“Because of that video, Seth is facing drunk and disorderly charges,” I say. “He could face worse depending on what happened that night while he was drugged. If he can’t clear his name, his career is over. His reputation is destroyed. And all because someone decided to slip something into his drink without his knowledge or consent.”
I let that sink in.
“So yeah,” I continue quietly. “We care a lot.”
Brooke glances around like she’s calculating escape routes. Hazel and I shift slightly, closing ranks. We’re not physically blocking her, but we’re making it clear that running isn’t going to solve her problems.
“So,” Brooke finally says, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t my decision. I didn’t want to do it, okay? Someone paid me. I needed the money.”
The air between us goes electric. That’s new.
“Who?” Hazel demands.
Brooke shakes her head frantically. “He told me to spike the drink because Seth’s the star of the rodeo. Said if Seth got bad publicity, the town would lose the circuit after this year. I don’t know why he wanted that—I didn’t ask questions. I just needed the cash.”
My mind is racing. Someone who wanted the rodeo to fail in Honeyspur Meadow paid her.
“Who paid you?” I press.
Brooke’s eyes dart between us. “If I tell you, you give me back the cup. And you let me go.”
“Depends on the name.”
