Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sam’s cabin sat at the end of a quiet road on the outskirts of White Rock, far enough from town that the nearest neighbor was a quarter mile away.
He’d inherited it from his grandparents, and Jo had been here enough times to know every corner of the place—the flow blue plates still arranged in the china cabinet the way his grandmother had left them, the trout mounts on the knotty pine walls from fish he and his grandfather had caught decades ago.
Sam had added his own touches over the years, but he’d never erased theirs.
Jo understood that. Some things you held onto.
She pulled up beside Wyatt’s car, killed the engine, and sat for a moment in the darkness. Through the front window, she could see the warm glow of lamps, the shadow of Sam moving around inside. Lucy would be at his feet, probably. She always was.
Wyatt was already out of his car, waiting. He’d been quiet since they left Holy Spirits, and even now he just stood there, hands shoved in his pockets.
Jo stepped out to join him. “You ready?”
He let out a long breath. “No. But I don’t think I ever will be.”
Sam opened the door before they reached the porch.
He stood silhouetted against the light, Lucy at his side, watching them approach with an expression Jo couldn’t quite read.
He’d known something was coming—she’d called ahead, told him it was important, told him it couldn’t wait. But he didn’t know the details yet.
He was about to.
“Come in,” Sam said, stepping back. His eyes moved from Jo to Wyatt, noting the tension in both of them. “Living room’s clear. Lucy, stay.”
Lucy whined but obeyed, settling at the edge of the hallway where she could watch without intruding.
The living room was warm, comfortable—worn furniture, shelves lined with books and old photos, the kind of space that felt lived-in rather than decorated. Sam gestured to the couch and took the armchair across from it, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“All right,” he said. “Talk to me.”
Jo glanced at Wyatt. This was his story to tell.
Wyatt sat on the edge of the couch, hands clasped between his knees. He looked like a man about to face a firing squad. But when he started talking, his voice was steady.
He went through it all. His father. The syndicate. Witness protection. The body in his trunk, Cooper, the FBI agent they’d found in the woods. The demand to alter files and steal evidence, to give up information on old informants. The texts that came at all hours, the pressure that never let up.
It was harder this time, Jo could see. Telling it to Sam. Admitting it to his chief, the man who’d given him a chance when nobody else would. The man who’d trusted him.
Sam listened without interrupting. His expression didn’t change—not when Wyatt described finding Cooper’s body, not when he explained about his father’s syndicate, not when he admitted he’d been deleting Kevin’s searches to protect a woman who turned out to be Jo’s sister.
When Wyatt got to the Motel 8 searches, Jo leaned forward.
“There were two sources,” Wyatt said. “Kevin’s house—that’s how I knew who was digging, so I could protect Bridget. But there was another. Motel 8. Same keywords, same files, but read-only access. They could see everything but couldn’t change anything.”
“Shaw is staying at Motel 8,” Jo added. “She’s on personal leave. No official assignment. Whatever she’s doing here, it’s not Bureau business.”
Sam’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “You think Shaw is working with the syndicate.”
“She showed up uninvited,” Jo said. “She’s been taking surveillance photos of the station. Asking questions about cases, about people. And now we find out she’s running searches on the same files Wyatt’s been pressured to destroy?” She shook her head. “It fits.”
When Wyatt finally stopped talking, the silence stretched for a long moment.
Sam leaned back in his chair. His jaw was tight, his eyes hard. When he spoke, his voice was like granite.
“You should have come to me.”
Wyatt flinched. “I know.”
“We could have figured this out together. Instead, you’ve been drowning alone for weeks while the rest of us watched and wondered what was wrong with you.
” Sam’s voice rose, then dropped again, controlled.
“I trusted you, Wyatt. I gave you a place on this team when you had nowhere else to go. And you didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. ”
“I was trying to protect you.” Wyatt’s voice cracked.
“All of you. These people kill FBI agents, Sam. They put a dead federal agent in my trunk just to send a message. If I’d told you, if they thought you were helping me…
It was the only way I knew to keep everyone safe.
” Wyatt’s shoulders dropped. “I was wrong. I know that now.”
The silence stretched again. Lucy whined softly from the hallway.
Then Sam exhaled—a long, controlled breath that seemed to release some of the tension in the room.
“You were wrong,” he said. “But I understand why you did it.” He met Wyatt’s eyes. “We fix this together. As a team. No more secrets.”
Wyatt nodded, something like relief flickering across his exhausted face.
“Here’s what we do,” Sam said, his voice shifting into the steady command tone Jo knew well. “Wyatt, you’re going to respond to your contact. Tell them you have what they want. Set up a meet.”
Wyatt went pale. “You want me to—“
“I want you to give them exactly what they’ve been asking for. Or at least make them think you are.” Sam’s eyes were sharp. “We’ll find out where and scout it out before hand. And when whoever shows up—Shaw, or whoever she’s working with—we’ll be ready.”
“What about Keller?” Jo asked.
Sam considered. “We keep him out of it for now. He’s FBI—if Shaw is dirty, we don’t know how deep it goes. Until we have proof, we play this close.”
Jo nodded. It made sense. Trust no one until you had to.
“Get some rest,” Sam said finally. “Both of you. Tomorrow we plan this out properly.”