22. Jesse
— ? —
Jesse
The town square isn’t much of a square.
It’s more of a triangle, technically, a patch of grass with a flagpole and a bench and a bronze statue of someone important that nobody remembers. But it’s where people gather when there’s something to see, and right now there’s something to see.
Sloane Marsh is standing in front of the flagpole with a stack of papers in her hand and a crowd forming around her.
I’m halfway across the street, still buzzing from the radio broadcast, still feeling the weight of the ring on my finger, when I hear her voice. It carries across the square with the particular projection of a woman who’s spent her career commanding rooms.
“ - documentation clearly demonstrates that Jesse Cooper has abandoned his unborn child. The father of my baby refuses to acknowledge paternity, refuses to provide basic financial support, refuses to take any responsibility for-”
“That’s interesting,” I say, loud enough to cut through her performance. “Considering I’ve never touched you.”
The crowd shifts. Phones materialize from pockets. Sloane’s face does something complicated, surprise sliding into calculation sliding into the particular smile of a woman who’s been waiting for this exact confrontation.
“Jesse.” She holds up the papers like they’re evidence in a trial. “I was hoping you’d show up. These are official documents. Legal. Binding. You can’t run from this forever.”
“I’m not running from anything. I’m standing right here.”
“Then sign them. Acknowledge your responsibility. Do the right thing for once in your miserable life.”
“The right thing would be a paternity test. Which you’ve been refusing for months.”
“I told you, the tests are dangerous during pregnancy. Any doctor will confirm-”
“Any doctor will confirm that modern prenatal paternity testing is completely non-invasive. One vial of blood from your arm. Nothing goes near the baby. It’s been standard for years.”
“My doctor advised against it.”
“Then give me your doctor’s name.”
She hesitates. It’s brief, a flicker, barely visible, but I’ve spent enough time watching her operate to recognize when the mask slips.
“That’s private medical information.”
“It’s a name, Sloane. A phone number. Something that proves you’ve actually consulted a medical professional about this pregnancy you claim to be having.”
“I’m not handing my medical records to a man who fired me on a tour bus.”
“You showed up in this town, in front of witnesses, waving papers that claim I fathered your child.” I gesture at the phones recording us, at the crowd that keeps growing.
“If you’re telling the truth, a paternity test proves it.
You win. Court orders, child support, whatever the judge says - I’ll comply. But if you’re lying-”
“I’m not lying.”
“Then take the test.”
“The timing isn’t-”
“My lawyer sent your counsel a formal offer last week. Testing appointment with Doc Abernathy - today, two o’clock, his office two blocks from here.
I’ve already provided my sample. You refused in writing, but here you are anyway.
” I take a step toward her. “Doc’s expecting us both.
Samples go to an independent specialist lab, results in a week.
Unless there’s a reason you’d rather keep refusing. ”
“I’m not going to some small-town clinic you picked-”
“Doc trained at Johns Hopkins. And he’s expecting us.”
“There’s no reason.”
“Then walk with me.”
I turn and start toward Doc Abernathy’s office. I don’t look back. I don’t check if she’s following. I just walk, and the crowd walks with me, and after a moment I hear her heels clicking on the pavement behind me.
Her lawyers flank her, two men in suits that cost more than my first truck, wearing expressions that suggest this isn’t going according to plan. Good. I’m tired of things going according to Sloane’s plan.
“This is harassment,” one of them says. “Our client has no obligation to submit to testing at a facility of your choosing.”
“Your client has been making public accusations about my paternity for months. She showed up in this town specifically to continue making those accusations. If she wants credibility, she can earn it.”
“The proper venue for these disputes is-”
“The proper venue is wherever the truth gets told. Right now, that’s Doc Abernathy’s office.”
The office is exactly what you’d expect from a small-town practice, wood paneling, ancient waiting room chairs, a reception desk manned by Marge, who by all accounts came with the building.
She looks up when we walk in, sees the crowd pressing against the windows, and sighs with the particular weariness of someone who’s seen too much to be surprised by anything.
“Jesse,” she says. “You bringing the circus today?”
“Sorry, Marge. Is Doc in?”
“He’s finishing up with Mr. Patterson. Gout.” She peers past me at Sloane and her legal entourage. “This the one from the television?”
“This is the one.”
“Hmm.” Marge’s expression suggests she’s already formed an opinion, and it’s not favorable. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
She disappears into the back. Sloane’s lawyers are murmuring urgently, probably advising her to leave, probably calculating the liability of continuing this public spectacle. But Sloane’s not listening to them. She’s watching me with an intensity that borders on unhinged.
“You think you’re so clever,” she says quietly, low enough that only I can hear. “You think this changes anything?”
“I think the truth changes everything.”
“The truth is whatever I say it is. That’s how this industry works. That’s how the world works.”
“Not my world. Not anymore.”
The door to the back opens. Doc Abernathy emerges, tall, thin, white hair that always looks like he’s been electrocuted, wearing a lab coat that’s seen better decades.
He takes in the scene with the calm assessment of a man who’s delivered bad news and good news in equal measure over a forty-year career.
“Jesse Cooper,” he says. “I heard you on the radio this morning. Didn’t expect your appointment to draw this much company.”
“Sorry to bother you, Doc. We’ve got a situation.”
“So I gathered.” He looks at Sloane. “Ms. Marsh. We meet again.”
The color drains from Sloane’s face.
“Again?” I ask.
“Ms. Marsh visited my office last night.” Doc’s voice is mild. “Came in through the back entrance around 10 p.m. Made me a very interesting proposition.”
“That’s a lie,” Sloane says. “I’ve never been to this office before in my life.”
“You offered me a substantial sum of money to either lose a sample or fabricate a result.” Doc hasn’t raised his voice, hasn’t changed his expression, but there’s steel underneath the calm.
“When I declined, you suggested that my practice might face certain ‘difficulties’ with licensing boards if I didn’t cooperate. ”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“What you didn’t know is that I’d already spoken with Sheriff Peter about the scheduled appointment.
He suggested I play along if anyone tried to interfere.
So I did. Told you I’d think about it. Let you believe the bribe worked.
” Doc pauses. “You came back today because you thought it had worked. It hadn’t. ”
Sloane’s face goes gray.
“I have security cameras, Ms. Marsh. Installed them last year after a break-in. The footage is quite clear. Your face, your voice, your very specific instructions about what you wanted me to do.” He pauses. “Sheriff Peter’s had copies since six this morning.”
The phones are eating this up. I can see screens glowing throughout the crowd, can hear the particular silence of people who know they’re witnessing something that’s going to be everywhere by nightfall.
“This is ridiculous,” one of the lawyers interjects. “These are unsubstantiated accusations designed to prejudice-”
“The footage is timestamped and stored on a cloud server, Counselor. Already with law enforcement. I’d be happy to provide access to any court that requests it.”
Sloane takes a step toward me. Her composure is cracking now, the careful mask falling away to reveal something desperate underneath. Her hand comes up to touch my chest, familiar, possessive, the gesture of a woman who’s convinced herself she has a claim.
“Jesse.” Her voice drops, intimate, meant just for me. “We’re a team. We’ve always been a team. Everything you’ve accomplished, everything you’ve become - we built this together. Don’t throw it all away for some ranch wife who doesn’t understand our world.”
I remove her hand from my chest. Calmly. Deliberately. Without anger, but without any possibility of misunderstanding.
“I’ve got a wife and a daughter,” I say. “That’s the whole team. There was never a version where you were on it.”
“Jesse-”
“Never, Sloane. You convinced yourself there was something between us, or you convinced yourself you could create something, but there wasn’t. There isn’t. There never will be.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“I mean every word.”
“After everything I’ve done for you-”
“After everything you’ve done to me. To my wife. To my marriage.” I’m not shouting. I don’t need to shout. The truth is loud enough on its own. “The lies, the manipulation, the way you isolated me from everyone who actually cared about me - that’s what you’ve done, Sloane. That’s your legacy.”
Her face twists into something ugly. The desperation gives way to rage, pure and unmasked.
“You’re making a mistake,” she says. “You’re throwing away everything-”
“I’m taking it back.”
Movement at the edge of my vision. Lo, coming through the crowd to the clinic doorway. She’s standing on the steps, watching, and I can see the tension in her shoulders, the protective way her hand rests on her belly.
Sloane follows my gaze. Sees Lo. And the rage drains out of her face into something colder and more careful. Her eyes lock onto Lo.
She moves fast.
There’s a teenager nearby, holding one of those ridiculous iced coffee drinks that’s more sugar than caffeine. Sloane grabs it from his hand before anyone can react and throws it directly at Lo.
The cup hits her shoulder, explodes on impact, sends a cascade of coffee and ice and caramel-colored liquid across her chest, into her hair, down the front of her shirt.
Lo stands there. Dripping. Completely still.
The crowd gasps. Someone shouts. I’m already moving toward her, but Lo holds up her hand, just slightly, just enough to stop me.
“Oh, honey,” she says to Sloane. Her voice is perfectly calm. Perfectly steady. “That’s the most you’ve ever done for me.”
Sloane’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. She wasn’t expecting that. She was expecting tears, maybe. Screaming. Some kind of breakdown she could use.
She got Lo instead.
“You-” Sloane starts.
“That shirt was from Target, by the way. Twelve dollars. You probably spent more on that latte.” Lo wipes a streak of coffee from her cheek with her fingers, examines it like it’s mildly interesting. “Though I have to say, the caramel’s a nice touch. Really brings out my eyes.”
“You think this is funny?”
“I think you just assaulted a pregnant woman in front of fifty witnesses and thirty phones. I think your lawyers are about to have a very bad day. And I think-” Lo tilts her head. “-you’ve just proven everything my husband said about you.”
Sloane’s lawyers are at her side now, physically inserting themselves between her and the rest of us. One of them is already on his phone, probably calling for damage control. The other has her by the arm, murmuring urgently about liability and optics and the need to leave immediately.
“I can’t breathe,” Sloane says suddenly.
“What?”
“My chest - the stress - the baby-” She presses her hand to her heart, starts gasping in a way that looks theatrical even from ten feet away. “I need medical attention. The pregnancy-”
“She’s faking,” I say.
“Our client is experiencing genuine medical distress,” the first lawyer announces loudly, for the benefit of the phones still recording. “This confrontation has caused significant emotional and physical strain. We’ll be seeking medical attention and pursuing legal remedies for harassment-”
“She bribed a doctor last night and just threw a drink at a pregnant woman.”
“These allegations are unfounded and defamatory-”
They’re hustling her toward the SUV that’s materialized at the curb, black, expensive, the kind of vehicle that comes with a driver and tinted windows. Sloane’s still doing her breathing performance, hand on her chest, letting herself be guided into the back seat like an invalid.
The door closes. The lawyers pile in after her. The engine starts.
I should let them go. The smart play is to let them go, deal with the fallout through proper channels, let the legal system handle whatever comes next.
But then the window rolls down.
Sloane’s face appears, not gasping anymore, the distress wiped clean, just cold. Calculating. Looking directly at me with an expression that promises this isn’t over.
“Brandi says hi, cowboy.”
The window rolls up. The SUV pulls away. And I stand there outside the clinic, trying to process what she just said.
Brandi.
The name knocks the wind clean out of me.
Brandi Kell. The woman who’s been stalking Lo for months.
The woman who wrote the letters, who watched our house, who knew which window was our bedroom and what time Lo rode the fence line every morning.
The woman whose identity we only learned through months of investigation, whose name was supposed to be confidential, known only to Pruitt and the sheriff and the people directly involved in trying to catch her.
Sloane knows her name. The name Pruitt identified months ago. The name that’s been in Peter’s files since the coordination started.
She said it like a message. Like she wanted me to know the threat isn’t over.
I turn toward the clinic steps.
Lo’s still standing there. Coffee dripping from her hair, but she’s not looking at the mess. She’s looking at me.
“She’s been feeding Brandi information,” Lo says quietly. “This whole time. That’s how Brandi knew where to find me.”
“We need to tell Peter.”
“Peter already knows Brandi’s name. Now he needs to know the connection.”