She nods, slowly, and walks to the couch. She sits, pulling her knees up. “It’s real.”
I cross to her, and drop into the chair across from her. “Tell me exactly what you found. No holding back.”
She hesitates, then reaches into the inner pocket of the coat she’d been wearing when she arrived—the one I hung by the door to dry. She pulls out a small black flash drive, holding it like it’s a live grenade.
“Bank records. Wire transfers to accounts tied to known dealers. Photos of him with the product. Audio of him bragging about moving weight through the county, about how his dad would handle any heat. Dates, names, amounts. Enough that if it gets to someone who isn’t bought, he’s done. And his friends too.”
My jaw locks. “You copied all that?”
“Every file. I didn’t just grab it—I duplicated the drives so he wouldn’t know right away. Then I ran.”
I hold out my hand. She places the drive in my palm, fingers brushing mine. A spark jumps, but I ignore it. I stand, and head to the small desk in the corner where my ancient laptop lives—solar-powered, offline most of the time, but it’ll do.
I plug it in. Boot it up. The screen flickers to life. I open the drive.
Folders labeled clean: FINANCIAL, PHOTOS, AUDIO, TIMELINE.
I click through.
Bank statements first—transfers from shell accounts to cash apps, then to burner wallets. Names I recognize from Hank’s quiet files: local distributors, a couple of out-of-state mules. Photos next—grainy shots from what looks like a warehouse, Matthew and two others unloading crates stamped with chemical warnings. One clear face shot: him holding a brick of meth, grinning like it’s Christmas.
The audio is worse. I plug in headphones so she doesn’t have to hear it again, but I catch enough. His voice, smug: “…Dad’ll squash it like always. Cops know better than to touch me. We move another five keys this month, we’re set.”
Plain as day.
I close the laptop, pull the drive, and hand it back to her. “This is enough. More than enough.”
She takes it, fingers trembling just a little. “What now?”
“Storm’s clearing. Tomorrow or the day after, roads open. We take this straight to Hank Lawson. He’s straight—been trying to nail James for years but never had the hammer. This is it. You file the report, press charges for the assault, hand over the evidence. Hank gets it to the DA in the next county over—someone Judge James doesn’t own. Feds might even sniff around if the drug angle’s big enough.”
“And Matthew?”
“He’ll fight. But with this? He’s fucked. His dad can’t bury digital copies spread across jurisdictions.”
She exhales, shaky. “I just want to go home. Back to my kids. My classroom. June and Evelyn. I miss it so much it hurts.”
I nod. “You will. Soon.”
She looks up at me, hazel eyes searching. “And you? What happens to you after all of this clears up?”
I shrug. “Back to quiet. Horses. Wood. Same as always.”
Her lips press together. “I don’t want to just disappear from here like I never happened.”
The words hit low. I stand, crossing to her, and crouch so we’re eye level. “You won’t. But right now, priority is getting you safe. Getting this evidence where it can do damage. Then we see what’s next.”
She reaches out, and touches my jaw—soft, tentative. “Thank you, Colt. For everything.”
I catch her hand, pressing my lips to her knuckles once. Quick. Then stand before I pull her into my lap and forget the plan.
“Eat something,” I say. “Rest. Tomorrow we move.”
She nods.
I head to the stove, and start lunch. It’s a simple, venison chili from the pot I’ve had simmering. But my mind’s already on tomorrow. On the drive down. On making sure no one touches her again. Because once this evidence is out?
Matthew James is going down.
