ELIAS
Myboots hit theconcretefloor ofPeakWildernessOutfitterswith a thud that echoes the pounding in my skull.
Canvas, treated leather, and pine fill the air.Thesmell is supposed to be comforting—the legitimate face of theBrokenHalos, the mask we wear for the town—but right now, it just smells like exposure.
"Lockit down,"Chasebarks, his voice rough with exhaustion. "I’lltake the front door.Oliver, you’ve got the back alley.Noone comes in unless they know the secret knock—or they’re wearing a badge and carrying a warrant that’ll actually hold up in court."
"Andif they are?"Oliverasks, racking the slide of his sidearm.Thesound is loud and violent.
"Thenwe buyEliastime,"Chasesays, turning his dark eyes on me. "Howlong do you need?"
Ilook at the mountain of bankers' boxes stacked in the back office.Yearsof physical manifests.Shippingreceipts.Thehard copy reality that the digital world can't erase. "Allnight,"Isay, my voice sounding like gravel grinding in a mixer. "Maybemore."
Miastands beside me.Shelooks like a stiff breeze would knock her over.Shewas still drowning in my heavy flannel shirt, the wool smudge-stained and smelling of our recent sex.Herhair was a chaotic halo around her face, and those sharp intelligent eyes that stripped me bare in theVaultare glazed with fatigue.
"Ican help," she says, reaching for the first box.Herhand trembles with a faint vibration.
Icatch her wrist.Herpulse hammers against my thumb.One, two, three…Toofast. "No,"Isay. "Yousleep."
"Ican't sleep,Elias.Mylife is in those boxes.TheFedsare going to come back with a federal judge's signature, and if we don't have the proof that the 'mirror' account exists,I'mgoing to prison for twenty years."Shetries to pull away, butIhold fast. "I'mthe auditor.Iknow what to look for."
"AndI'mtheTreasurer,"Igrowl, stepping into her space until all she could see was me. "Andyou're mine.Whichmeans your problems are my problems.Andright now, your problem is that you're about to collapse."
Isteer her toward the display floor.Wesell high-end camping gear to tourists who want to play mountain man for a weekend.Rightin the center of the showroom is a display tent—a six-person dome setup with sub-zero sleeping bags.
"Elias—"
"Getin,"Iorder.
Sheblinks, looking at the tent, then back at me. "You'reserious."
"Deadly."Ipoint a scarred finger at the sleeping bag. "Sleep.IfIhear so much as a rustle from that nylon,I’mcrawling in there to pin you to that sleeping bag and fuck you into a coma.I’llstretch your pussy until you’re too exhausted to do anything but dream of me.Weboth knowI’mdone being gentle with what belongs to me."
Hercheeks flush.Thereaction is visceral and immediate.Good.Sheis still fighting.
"Threehours," she negotiates, her chin tilting up. "ThenIswitch out with you."
Silentand unmoving,Iwatch her crawl into the tent, the nylon rustling like a whisper.Shecurls up on the display bag, looking small and vulnerable, but the steady rise and fall of her chest is the only anchor keeping me grounded.
Sincethe federal raid on theChapel, a dark, suffocating panic has been clawing at the edges of my mind—a primal terror of losing her that triggered the same violent flashbacksI’vefought since thefire.
Igrip the doorframe, my knuckles turning white asIforce my brain to execute a grounding protocol.
One.Two.Three.Four.Icount her breaths.Icount the seconds sinceIlast held her.
Onlywhen the numbers stabilized, and her shivering stopped, does the phantom smell of blood fade from my memory.Iturn my back on her beforeIcan do something stupid, like crawl in there with her and forget the world burning down around us.
"Threehours,"Imutter, the promise as much for my own sanity as hers.
Iwalk into the back office and shut the door.
Thesilence in the office is heavy.Isit at the desk, the wood scarred from years of inventory checks and weapon cleanings.Ipull the first box toward me.
2019Q3.Logistics.
Iopen it.Thesmell of old paper and dust hits me.Istart counting.Peoplethink math is cold.Theythink numbers are rigid, unyielding things.They’rewrong.Numbersare a language.Theytell a story.Ifyou look at a ledger long enough, you can see the ghosts.Youcan see where money is desperate, where it is greedy, where it is frightened.
Iam looking for the lie.
