"There's a woman at the FBI," he says, finally. "Albuquerque field office. Her name's Torres. She works public corruption." He takes a slow breath. "Years ago, she looked into some suspicious deaths on the circuit. She couldn't prove anything. She told me to come back if I ever found a pattern."
The photographs on the wall come back to me. The young man with Flint's jaw and the same sharp gaze, wearing a championship buckle. The way Flint said "suspicious deaths" with a weight that sounded personal. I file the thought away and don't push it.
"Grant found the pattern," Flint continues. "He came to me because I knew the stock contracting side. I helped him connectthe financials to the livestock operations. We had evidence, including photos, records, and documentation."
"What happened to it?"
"Rainey has it. The photographer, Grant's girlfriend." Flint's voice drops. "She was supposed to get the evidence to Torres if anything happened to Grant. Instead she disappeared."
"Do you know where she is?"
He shakes his head. "She called me once, about six weeks ago, from a blocked number. She said she was safe. She said she was scared. She said she'd come forward when someone could guarantee she wouldn't end up the same way Grant did." His hands tighten around the mug. "That was the last I heard."
"The camera crew at Las Cruces," I say. "The footage of the ride."
"Confiscated. Merrick's people claimed it as circuit property. The independent crew I helped Grant hire was paid off or intimidated. Every piece of evidence that existed at that arena was gone within twenty-four hours of his death."
He says Merrick's name the way you name a disease you've been fighting.
"Mr. Flint, if we can find Rainey and get the evidence package to Torres, the FBI has something to work with."
"You keep saying 'we.'"
"The man in the truck is Colt Holloway. He's been investigating since Grant died."
Flint's expression shifts. "Holloway. Grant's traveling partner. The one who rides like he's trying to get himself killed."
"That's the one. Though his last ride looked like he might be figuring that out."
"Grant trusted him." Flint says it like a verdict. "He told me once that if anything happened, Colt would be the one who wouldn't stop. He said the man was too stubborn and too angry to let it go."
"He was right about that." On both counts, I think, and then I shut that line of thinking down because this is not the time to catalog all the ways Grant knew how to read the people around him.
Flint is quiet for a long time. The light through the curtain gap moves across the table, and the clock keeps ticking, and the shotgun leans by the door like a third person in the conversation.
"Find Rainey," he says. "She has everything, including photos, financial documents, and copies of every record Grant gathered. You find her, you take everything to Torres. That's the play."
"That's the play," I agree.
"But be careful. Merrick has cleaned up every loose end so far. Vic disappeared. The camera crew was paid off. I've had strangers drive past this ranch three times in the last month, and nobody drives past this ranch by accident." His steady gaze holds mine. "Whoever you are, you're walking into the same fight that killed Grant. Make sure you're ready for what that means."
He walks me to the door. I'm almost through the screen when he puts a hand on my shoulder, and the weight of it stops me cold.
"Be careful with Holloway," he says. "Grant trusted him for good reason, but grief makes people dangerous. And that man is drowning in it."
"Grief makes people dangerous," I agree. "It also makes them relentless. Right now, I need relentless more than I need safe."
Flint studies me for a long moment, then nods once, like I've passed a test he didn't tell me he was giving.
"If Rainey calls you again, tell her to reach me." I pull a card from my press bag and write my burner number on the back. "That number, any time. Tell her she's not alone in this anymore."
He takes the card, turns it over, and tucks it into his shirt pocket without looking at it. "I'll pass it along. If she calls."
"Thank you, Mr. Flint."
"Don't thank me yet. Just bring these bastards down."
The weight of his hand lifts from my shoulder, and I walk back toward the truck on legs that feel less steady than they did going in. The grief I held in check at that kitchen table is pressing against my composure now, looking for cracks.
