I think about Tyler Brennan. Seventeen years of friendship compressed into words that won't do him justice.
"Competitive as hell. Would bet on anything—which bull would come out of the chute first, how many beers Colt could drink before passing out, whether it would rain before the event started. He never won those bets, but he never stopped making them." I smile despite myself. "He was loyal. If you were his friend, he'd go to war for you. Didn't matter if you were right or wrong. He had your back."
"Sounds like he was a good man."
"The best." The smile fades. "My sister Kenna's been calling. Six voicemails I haven't listened to. My brother Dax drove up from Lubbock for the funeral, skipped a bareback event to be there, and I barely looked at him." I tighten my grip on the wheel. "They want to talk about Tyler. I don't know how."
"'I'm sorry I haven't called' is usually a good start."
"Sorry doesn't change anything."
"No. But it reminds people they're not alone in missing someone."
She's right. I know she's right. But calling Kenna means admitting I'm falling apart. And Dax would throw himself headfirst into this mess the way he throws himself at everything, and I can't put my brother in the crosshairs of people who've already killed once.
My phone rings. Colt's name on the screen. I answer on Bluetooth.
"You're missing the pre-event meeting," he says without preamble.
"I'll be there. Just running late."
"Who's the photographer?"
I glance at Rainey. She raises an eyebrow like she knows exactly what Colt's asking.
"Her name's Rainey. She's helping with something."
"Helping with what?"
"Tyler."
Silence on the line. Then: "Grant. We talked about this."
"I know."
"Tyler's death was an accident. You digging around isn't going to change that."
"It's not ghosts, Colt. I've got evidence. Proof the bull was drugged."
More silence. I can practically hear Colt processing this, deciding whether to believe me or write me off as someone lost in grief.
"What kind of proof?"
"Photos. A confession from Vic Sutton. Paper trail showing a pattern of injuries at events where Vic handled the bulls."
"Jesus, Grant." Colt's voice drops. "If you're right, if this is real, you need to go to the authorities. Not play detective with a photographer you just met."
"Authorities already closed the case."
"Then reopen it. Show them what you've got."
"And if they don't care? If they write it off as conspiracy theory from a grief-stricken friend?" I exit the highway, heading toward town. "I'm not risking that."
"You're risking worse by doing this yourself. If someone killed Tyler to protect a money operation, they'll kill you too." He pauses. "Your sister called me." His voice shifts. Something underneath the warning, something I can't read. "Kenna's been trying to reach you for two weeks. She's talking about coming out to the circuit herself if you don't pick up the phone."
"She doesn't need to be anywhere near this."
"Try telling her that. She's got your same stubborn streak and half your sense of self-preservation." A pause that lasts a beat too long. "I told her you're fine. That you're just dealing with Tyler's death in your own way. She didn't believe me, but it bought you some time."
