"And nothing." He crushes the paper cup and tosses it toward a trash barrel. Makes the shot. "I'm not your next interview."
"I'm not asking for one."
"Then what are you asking for?"
"Nothing. I'm telling you something." I keep my voice low and my posture open. My brother taught me that, without meaning to. I approach a scared man the same way I'd approach a scared horse: steady hands, soft voice, no sudden moves. "The FBI has the case. Merrick is going down whether you say a word or not. Whatever you're carrying, you don't have to carry it alone anymore."
His jaw goes tight. The tendons in his neck pull taut, and the coffee cup he tossed is already in the barrel, so his hands have nothing to do but curl at his sides.
"You don't know what I'm carrying."
"I know you pulled my brother out of the dirt at Las Cruces. I know you saw the bull. I know you've been walking around this circuit pretending you didn't see what you saw, and I know what that costs because I've been pretending too."
His head snaps toward me. The wall cracks, just for a second, and what I see underneath is raw and complicated and has nothing to do with Las Cruces.
"Your brother," he says.
"Grant Corbin. My name is Kenna Corbin."
He stares at me. The calculation happening behind his eyes is fast and layered, reprocessing every interaction, every overheardconversation, every piece of information he's been collecting in silence.
"Holloway knows?"
"Holloway knows everything."
Slade is quiet for a long time. A stock handler leads a bull past us, and the animal's hooves kick up dust that settles on our boots.
"I can't come forward," he says. "Not yet. Not for the reasons you think."
"Then for what reasons?"
He looks at me the way a man looks at a locked door when he's holding the key and trying to decide if what's on the other side is worth opening.
"Ask me again after the trial," he says. "If Merrick goes down, and the circuit doesn't bury it, ask me again."
He walks away before I can respond, moving through the competitor area with the fluid, contained stride of a man who's been practicing invisibility.
I hold onto that. Slade Carrick's silence has a shape to it, the shape of a man who's protecting something bigger than his own comfort, and that shape will matter later.
The evening after the Tucson event, Colt and I sit in my motel room with takeout containers spread across the bed and my laptop open to the article's comment section. The story has been shared thousands of times. The comment section is a war zone of supporters, skeptics, and rodeo loyalists calling me everything from a hero to a liar.
"Merrick's PR team is working overtime," I say, scrolling through the comments. "Half of these negative responses use the same phrasing. They're coordinated."
"Let them coordinate." Colt reaches across me for the container of green chili, and his hand pauses on the container. He doesn't pick it up. Instead his fingers press against myhip bone through my jeans, firm and proprietary, holding the contact long enough that my breathing changes. Then he takes the green chili and settles back like nothing happened. "The witnesses are talking. Torres has new information. The story is doing what you designed it to do."
He's right. The story is a stone dropped in a pond, and the ripples are reaching shores we couldn't have predicted. An animal welfare organization has opened its own investigation into Thornton Livestock's handling practices. A state senator from New Mexico has called for legislative hearings. A sports media company has reached out to Sylvia about a follow-up feature.
Merrick is feeling pressure from directions he didn't anticipate, and the calm, smiling commissioner who sat in the VIP section at every event is starting to sweat.
My phone rings. Torres.
"Ms. Corbin." The careful tone is back, but underneath it, a thread of energy I haven't heard before. "I wanted to update you on a development."
"I'm listening."
"The witnesses who came forward in response to your article have provided information that significantly strengthens our case. Combined with the evidence from Ms. Weathers and your financial analysis, I'm preparing a warrant package for submission this week."
I press the phone against my ear and close my eyes. The information settles into me like a weight being lifted and redistributed, the relief so physical that my hands tremble.
