I laugh despite myself, despite Tanner and the tight coil of anxiety that has been living in my ribs all day. These three make it hard to stay scared. They keep dragging me back into the moment, into breath, and into something that feels survivable.
That’s when Seth returns, balancing a tray stacked with food. He sets it down in the middle of the table, and the smells hit me all at once—brisket, ribs, pulled pork, cornbread, coleslaw, beans. He slides into the seat beside Carter, scanning our faces.
“What did I miss?”
Kai, Carter, and I exchange glances, a shared silent agreement, then we all start laughing again.
Seth’s eyes narrow, already suspicious. “All right. What did you two do now?” His gaze lands on Kai and Carter, because of course it does. He knows where trouble lives.
“Nothing,” Carter says, too innocent to be believable.
“Absolutely nothing,” Kai agrees, the picture of sincerity, if sincerity had dimples and a criminal record.
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh harder, and fail.
Seth stares at them, unimpressed. “Well, you all look suspicious.”
Kai spreads his hands. “We are offended that you would accuse us.”
Carter nods solemnly. “Deeply offended.”
Seth doesn’t blink. “Because I know you both.”
Kai leans closer to me, stage-whispering, “See? He has trust issues.”
Carter whispers back, “He was born with them.”
This time it’s Seth who laughs out loud, and I love the sound so much. It’s intoxicating and contagious. And somehow, even with Tanner sitting nearby and my nerves still buzzing under my skin, my shoulders loosen a fraction, because this is what they do. They crowd in, feed me, and then joke until I can breathe again.
24
SETH
I’ve read my father’s text message three times now.
Meet me after the morning meeting out in front of the town hall. You don’t need to attend today since you got a bit heated yesterday, but we can go through the numbers together and talk through anything you found.
Heated. That’s one word for it. Another might bejustified,furious, orready to tear Holden’s throat out with my bare hands. But sure.Heatedworks.
I stand on the sidewalk outside the town hall, shoulders hunched against the morning chill, and pull up the email Joshua sent an hour ago. The subject line is simple:Yesterday’s count.I open the attachment on my phone and scroll, thumb moving fast over rows of handwritten totals turned into neat columns.
Tickets. Concessions. Merchandise. Every sale tracked in real time.
The numbers look right.
Not perfect, not polished, but right in that gut-level way you learn after years of running events. They match what I saw yesterday, the packed stands, the constant lines, the vendors barely keeping up. And much closer to the kind of revenue we’vepulled in at past stops on the circuit when things are running clean.
Which is exactly why my jaw tightens.
Because Holden’s story about the first two days has been one of underperformance. Lower totals. Smaller margins. A steady drip of disappointment that never quite turns into a crisis, just enough to keep everyone resigned and distracted. If yesterday was this strong, then day one and day two should not have been as weak as Holden made them sound.
That missing chunk of money did not evaporate. It had to be redirected.
I keep scrolling, double-checking categories, scanning for any obvious mistake, any reason to doubt it. There isn’t one. The pattern is too consistent, too clean, and it lines up too well with my memory of the day.
Footsteps crunch behind me on the pavement. I look up and spot my father coming down the sidewalk, hands in the pockets of his pants, expression set in that hard, unreadable way he gets when he’s already bracing for bad news. He slows when he sees my face.
“Seth,” he says, stopping in front of me. “Thanks for waiting.”
