"From what I've heard, Flint drove Rainey out of Las Cruces after Grant died," I say. "He didn't have to do that. If it's true, he chose to protect her, which means some part of him might still care about what Grant was trying to do. We give him a reason to believe the risk is worth it again."
"And what reason is that?"
"Progress. We show him the financial data. We show him we have more than Grant had at this point, that what Grant was doing isn't dead, that Grant's death can still mean something."
"I don't want to build a case," he says. "I want to put my fist through Merrick's face at the next circuit event and let the whole arena watch."
"And then what? Merrick's lawyers file assault charges, you get banned from the circuit, and the investigation dies with your credibility." I hold his gaze. "Satisfying? Absolutely. Effective? You'd be doing Merrick a favor."
"Don't tell me what's effective." He's on his feet now, and the motel room shrinks by half.
The lamplight catches the stitches above his eyebrow, and his jaw is set in a way that should make me step back... I don't.
"Someone has to, because your guilt is making you sloppy and stupid, and I'm neither." I keep my voice level even as his expression hardens. "You're not wrong about Merrick. You're not wrong about any of it. But being right isn't enough. Grant was right, and he's dead. Tyler was right, and he's dead. Being right without a plan just makes you the next name on the list."
"And you've got a plan." He says it like a challenge, not a question, and he's closer now.
Close enough that the heat pours off his skin through his shirt.
"I've got the beginning of one. We build the financial case first, lock down the paper trail, then use it to leverage the witnesses. Flint, my source who traveled with Grant, anyone else who's been too scared to come forward. We give Torres at the FBI something she can actually prosecute, and we do it methodically, from the outside in, so Merrick doesn't see it coming until it's too late."
"That could take weeks." His voice is low, and the West Texas in it has gone rough at the edges.
I'm acutely aware that we're standing in a motel room arguing about strategy while the distance between his mouth and mine could be measured in inches.
"Weeks of building a case that holds up, or one moment of satisfaction followed by nothing. Those are your options."
He stares at me. I stare back.
The argument is a live wire between us, and the charge running through it has nothing to do with Merrick or strategy.
"Fine," Colt says. The word comes out like he's chewing glass. "Your way. For now. The second the methodical approach stops working?—"
"Then we reassess."
"Then I go through Merrick's front door, and you can either come with me or get out of the way."
He holds my gaze for a beat too long. The argument is over but the energy from it hasn't dissipated, and it's found somewhere new to settle.
The space between us. The too-small motel room. The fact that we're alone together for the first time without arena noise or bar crowds to dilute the proximity.
"You should let this go," he says, and the drawl thickens, pulling every vowel tight. "Go back to your freelance gig andwrite your feature piece and forget about Merrick and Thornton and Grant and all of it."
"We just agreed on a plan."
"I know what we agreed. I'm telling you to leave anyway."
He closes the distance between us, backing me against the door. His hand lands flat beside my head, blocking the exit.
"This is my fight. My guilt. I don't need a partner, and I sure as hell don't need you in this room."
He's not talking about the investigation anymore.
"I'm not leaving," I say.
"Then you need to understand what staying means."
"I understand exactly what it means."
