"Flint confirmed Thornton Livestock is connected to Dale Thornton. He's the circuit's head of operations. Controls schedules, approves stock contractors, has access to everything." I pause. "And he gave me a name. The man Thornton answers to. Hayes Merrick."
Rainey's head snaps up. "Merrick. The circuit commissioner?"
"Flint says Merrick's investment group is behind the shell company that owns Thornton Livestock. Says everyone in the stock contracting business knows it."
"Everyone in the stock contracting business isn't a courtroom." She pulls up another browser tab. "But corporate filings might be."
She pulls up her laptop, cross-legged on the bed, face lit blue in the dim room. Auburn hair loose around her shoulders, fingers moving across the keyboard with the same precision she uses on a camera shutter. I catch myself watching her handsinstead of the screen, tracking the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating.
Focus.Tyler's dead and I'm cataloging a woman's hands.
She digs through Nevada Secretary of State filings, corporate registrations, and holding company structures. Twenty minutes of silence broken only by her typing and the wind outside the motel windows.
Then she leans back.
"He's right." Her voice is tight. "Merrick's investment group is the registered agent for the Nevada shell company that owns Thornton Livestock. It's buried under two holding companies, but it's there." She turns the laptop toward me, and our shoulders press together as I lean in to read the screen. Neither of us moves away. "Hayes Merrick controls Thornton Livestock. Thornton Livestock supplies the bulls Vic drugs. Dale Thornton manages the events where the injuries happen. It's all one operation."
"And Merrick sits at the top."
"Pulling every string."
She looks at me, and in the laptop light her eyes are all gold and shadow. "That's who we're really after."
"That's who killed Tyler."
Now we just have to prove it before he kills us too.
My phone rings. Colt's name.
"Yeah?"
"Where are you?"
"Motel. Why?"
"Because someone's asking about you at the arena. Suit and tie, official-looking, wanted to know where you're staying and who you've been talking to."
Ice settles behind my ribs. "When?"
"Twenty minutes ago. I told him I didn't know. He didn't believe me, but he left." Colt's voice is tight with worry. "Grant, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?"
"Can't talk about it now. I'll call you later."
"Grant—"
I hang up, turn to Rainey. "We need to leave. Now."
"What happened?"
"Someone's looking for us. Official-looking guy, asking questions." I start throwing our stuff into bags. "Could be circuit security. Could be Merrick's people. Either way, they know we're in Albuquerque, and it's only a matter of time before they find this motel."
Rainey closes her laptop, starts packing with quick, efficient movements. We're out the door in under five minutes, bags thrown in my truck bed, engine running before anyone can spot us leaving.
I don't head for the highway. Instead, I navigate through back roads, checking the rearview mirror every thirty seconds to see if we're being followed.
"Where are we going?" Rainey asks.
"Flint's ranch. He offered it as a safe house if we needed one."
