The thing nobody tells you about having a plan is that you actually have to, you know, explain it. Out loud. To people. People who are not paid to listen, but who are perfectly capable of ignoring you, or, worse, staring at you with the blank, carnivorous curiosity of apex predators considering a new food source.
I had never given a presentation in my life, but the closest thing I could compare it to was this: standing in the middle of the McKenzie war room—living room, technically, but all the furniture had been pushed against the walls and the onlycenterpiece was a battered whiteboard Harlow had found in the barn, propped between two kitchen chairs.
Knox watched from the opposite side, arms folded, eyes locked on me with that signature blend of “I’m deeply invested in your success” and “if you mess this up I will literally eat you.”
His brothers loitered around the perimeter, making bets in undertones on whether I’d faint or break something. Even Aunt Georgia had pulled up a folding chair, needlepoint abandoned, fingers laced in anticipation.
I took a breath and launched in, the way a doomed man launches from the gallows, fast, before I lost my nerve.
“Okay,” I said, pointing with a dry-erase marker that had seen better days. “The only way this works is if we take away every angle my father can use to claim you’re a threat to his interests. That means no backroom deals, no handshake arrangements, nothing that can be re-interpreted by a creative lawyer or a cranky judge. We need it airtight, irreversible, and most importantly, public.”
Harlow nodded like I was preaching to the converted.
“First,” I said, “we get Sheriff Hardesty. Not just because he’s law enforcement, but because he has jurisdiction and a vested interest in keeping the peace.”
I scribbled “Sheriff” on the board, underlined it three times, and drew a crude badge that looked more like a starfish with a thyroid problem.
“Second,” I said, warming up, “we need a representative from the FDIC, or at least someone from the regional oversight office. Because even if my father’s the managing partner, the bank itself is federally insured, and there are regulations about how and when loans can be called in. If there’s any sign of predatory practice, the feds can freeze the whole process. He knows this, but he’ll try to bluff his way around it if we don’t bring our own referee.”
I drew a tiny stick man in a suit and labeled him “Fed.”
Quiad snorted, but it sounded approving.
“Third, we bring the money. All of it. Up front. Not just the balloon payment, but the entire remaining balance on the loan. That way, even if my father tries to pull a fast one and change the terms after the fact, it’s already paid and closed, in the presence of law enforcement and a federal rep. No loopholes.”
Ransom whistled, low and impressed. “You sure you weren’t adopted from the CIA, Newt?”
I grinned, because I was proud, and if I stopped to think about it I would probably melt into a puddle of nerves on the carpet.
Knox’s eyes darkened, and for a second I got that look. The one that said, “I want to throw you against the nearest wall and do terrible things, but I’m holding back because my grandfather is watching.”
It was hands down my favorite look. I wanted to bottle it and wear it like cologne.
“Smart,” said Knox, voice all grit and velvet.
The effect on my nervous system was immediate. My face went red. My knees wanted to shake. I tried to play it cool, like I was just a guy who made complex financial rescue plans every day before breakfast.
“Well,” I said, and shrugged, which probably looked more like a baby bird preening than an actual human gesture. “Nobody messes with my family.”
I meant it, too. I’d been called family before, but this was the first time I wanted to put the word on a business card, maybe tattoo it on my arm just to make it official.
For a second, the room was quiet. Not the awkward, “someone’s about to die” kind of silence, but the thoughtful, “damn, the nerd has a point” kind.
I watched as the faces around me transformed from skepticism to something like respect. Even Pa, who had seen more battles than anyone in the room, gave me a sharp little nod.
Ransom grinned. “You want me to drive the truck?”
“Yeah,” I said. “And wear a nice shirt. This has to look legit.”
He thumped the table so hard the dry-erase marker vibrated off its tray and rolled under the couch.
Aunt Georgia smiled at me, genuine and proud, and I wondered if this was what it felt like to have a mother in your corner. “You’ll do us proud, Newton,” she said, using the full name like it was a term of endearment, not a sentencing guideline.
Knox was still watching, but his expression had shifted. I recognized it from the river, from the first night he’d held me after I’d stabbed a man in self-defense and then cried about it while pretending I hadn’t.
It was pride, sure, but it was also hunger. Like he couldn’t decide whether to hug me or drag me out to the truck bed and ravish me in full view of the entire family.
I decided I was perfectly fine with either option.
