"My source is scared."
"Smart man."
"Scared and smart aren't the same thing." She uncrosses her arms. "You need what I have, Colt. I can see it on your face. Every lead you've chased has gone cold, and you're running out of time and options and patience. I'm offering you a partnership."
"I don't do partnerships."
"You did. With Grant."
The name cuts through the conversation like a blade through rope.
She says it with weight, with reverence. The anger that flashes through me is immediate and irrational, because she's using a dead man's name to leverage her way into an investigation that will probably kill her.
"Don't use him to sell me," I say. My voice comes out lower than I intend, the vowels dragging slow. "You didn't even know him."
"No," she says. "I didn't."
The way she says it carries a weight that doesn't match the words. Her expression goes tight for a half-second before she smooths it out.
I look at the folder in my hand. The data is solid. The connections she's drawn between Thornton Livestock's events and the prize money discrepancies are connections I've suspected but never had the documentation to prove. Mesquite Ridge Holdings is the same name that came up when I startedpulling on Merrick's business filings, and hearing it from her mouth confirms what I suspected but couldn't prove on my own.
"My rules," I say.
"What are your rules?"
"You don't publish anything until I say it's safe. You don't contact anyone connected to the investigation without clearing it with me first. You don't go anywhere alone after dark, and you don't use your real name with anyone on this circuit who's connected to Thornton."
"I'm already using a fake name."
That stops me. "What?"
"Kenna McEnroe is my pen name." She delivers the lie with absolute conviction and not a single tell. "My legal name is on my driver's license, not my byline. Standard practice for freelance journalists working sensitive stories."
"So what's your real name?"
"Not something I hand out to people I met yesterday." She holds my gaze without blinking. "My cover protects me. It protects you too, since anyone who comes looking for the journalist poking around the circuit is going to be chasing a name that doesn't lead anywhere."
That's a decent answer. Too decent, maybe. The kind of answer you have ready because you've rehearsed it.
"Then what do I call you?"
"Kenna. That part's real."
I study her for a long beat. She doesn't flinch, doesn't fidget, doesn't look away. Either she's telling the truth or she's the best liar I've ever met.
I file it away and move on.
"Merrick," I say. "Hayes Merrick. Circuit commissioner, investment group owner, and the man behind Thornton Livestock. He's the one running this operation. The drugged bulls, the prize skimming, all of it. He had Tyler Brennan killed,and when Grant picked up where Tyler left off, Merrick had him killed too."
Her face goes still. She's not shocked, but she's processing, cataloging, filing every word away behind those careful eyes.
"How do you know?"
"Because Grant told me." I lean against the truck and cross my arms. "The night before Las Cruces, Grant called me. He told me what he'd found. The drugged bulls, the skimmed prize money, Merrick pulling the strings through Thornton. He told me he was going to ride Tombstone's Revenge to prove the bull was drugged. I told him not to ride until I got there." I clench my jaw. "He didn't wait. My truck broke down outside Socorro, and by the time I got to Las Cruces, the arena was cleared and Grant was already gone."
I pause and let the weight of that settle.
"Grant had a bull handler named Vic on a wire. Vic confessed to drugging the animals on Merrick's orders. That confession was recorded on Grant's phone." I uncross my arms and shove my hands in my pockets. "After Grant died, the phone was recovered from the arena, but the recording was gone. It was either wiped or never transferred. Vic disappeared. Rainey Weathers disappeared with all the photographic evidence. Flint, the guy helping them, stopped returning calls."
