Chapter 3
During the time I’ve spent in a truck with Rainey Weathers, I’ve learned three things: she doesn't fill silences, she drinks her coffee black, and every time I look at her, I want things I've got no business wanting.
The circuit's moving to Albuquerque. Rainey drove her van to the fairgrounds right after our conversation to claim a good parking spot before the lot filled up, then caught a ride back to Amarillo for the rest of the event.
She could have found her own way back, but I suggested we travel together.
Easier to plan if we're not trying to coordinate over text messages.
That's what I told her, anyway. The truth is I don't want her alone on the road if whoever's behind Tyler's murder figures out she's got evidence.
She's in my passenger seat with her laptop balanced on her knees, going through photos while I drive. We've been on the highway for an hour, and she's barely said ten words.
"You always this quiet?" I ask.
"You always this talkative?"
Fair. I'm not exactly known for my conversation skills.
"What are you looking at?" I nod toward the laptop.
"Cross-referencing. Vic shows up in backgrounds at seventeen events over six months.
I'm checking rider injury reports from those same events.
" She clicks through screens. "Ten riders injured seriously enough to miss the next event.
Three career-ending injuries. Tyler's the only death, but the pattern's there. "
"Someone's systematically hurting riders."
"High-profile riders," she corrects. "Not the guys fighting for points at the bottom of the standings. These are top ten competitors. People who draw crowds. People whose rides generate the most attention and the biggest prize purses."
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. "You think this is about the prize money?"
"Or insurance fraud. Or eliminating competition. Could be anything." She pulls up a spreadsheet. "But money's involved. Has to be. Vic said he was getting cash payments. That kind of operation requires funding."
"And organization. Whoever's running this has access to event schedules, knows which riders are drawing crowds, can get messages to Vic without being seen." I merge onto the highway toward New Mexico. "That's not amateur hour. That's professional."
"Which means we're out of our depth."
"Probably."
She closes the laptop, looks at me. "So why are you still doing this?"
"Because Tyler tried to tell me something before he died. Because nobody else is asking questions. Because if I don't, whoever killed him gets away with it." I glance at her. "Why are you helping?"
"Because I'm tired of documenting tragedies and calling them accidents.
" She's quiet for a moment. "My father died in a ranching accident when I was seventeen.
Kicked in the head by a horse. The sheriff ruled it bad luck, closed the investigation in three days.
But I saw the bruising. I saw where he fell. I knew it didn't add up."
"You think someone killed him?"
"I think the people who should have cared didn't look hard enough to find out.
" She stares out the window at the highway stretching ahead of us.
"So when I see another death getting swept under the rug because it's convenient, because asking questions is harder than accepting the easy answer, I can't just walk away. "
I understand that more than she knows. The need to find answers because nobody else will. The guilt of surviving when someone you care about didn't. The rage at a system that chooses convenience over truth.
"I'm sorry about your father," I say.
"I'm sorry about Tyler."
We drive in silence for a while. Comfortable silence, the kind that happens when two people understand each other without needing to explain. The landscape shifts from Texas flatland to New Mexico desert, all red rock and endless sky.
"Tell me about him," Rainey says eventually. "Tyler. What was he like?"
I think about Tyler Brennan. Seventeen years of friendship compressed into words that won't do him justice.
"Competitive as hell. Would bet on anything—which bull would come out of the chute first, how many beers Colt could drink before passing out, whether it would rain before the event started.
He never won those bets, but he never stopped making them.
" I smile despite myself. "He was loyal.
If you were his friend, he'd go to war for you.
Didn't matter if you were right or wrong. He had your back."
"Sounds like he was a good man."
"The best." The smile fades. "My sister Kenna's been calling.
Six voicemails I haven't listened to. My brother Dax drove up from Lubbock for the funeral, skipped a bareback event to be there, and I barely looked at him.
" I tighten my grip on the wheel. "They want to talk about Tyler. I don't know how."
"'I'm sorry I haven't called' is usually a good start."
"Sorry doesn't change anything."
"No. But it reminds people they're not alone in missing someone."
She's right. I know she's right. But calling Kenna means admitting I'm falling apart. And Dax would throw himself headfirst into this mess the way he throws himself at everything, and I can't put my brother in the crosshairs of people who've already killed once.
My phone rings. Colt's name on the screen. I answer on Bluetooth.
"You're missing the pre-event meeting," he says without preamble.
"I'll be there. Just running late."
"Who's the photographer?"
I glance at Rainey. She raises an eyebrow like she knows exactly what Colt's asking.
"Her name's Rainey. She's helping with something."
"Helping with what?"
"Tyler."
Silence on the line. Then: "Grant. We talked about this."
"I know."
"Tyler's death was an accident. You digging around isn't going to change that."
"It's not ghosts, Colt. I've got evidence. Proof the bull was drugged."
More silence. I can practically hear Colt processing this, deciding whether to believe me or write me off as someone lost in grief.
"What kind of proof?"
"Photos. A confession from Vic Sutton. Paper trail showing a pattern of injuries at events where Vic handled the bulls."
"Jesus, Grant." Colt's voice drops. "If you're right, if this is real, you need to go to the authorities. Not play detective with a photographer you just met."
"Authorities already closed the case."
"Then reopen it. Show them what you've got."
"And if they don't care? If they write it off as conspiracy theory from a grief-stricken friend?" I exit the highway, heading toward town. "I'm not risking that."
"You're risking worse by doing this yourself.
If someone killed Tyler to protect a money operation, they'll kill you too.
" He pauses. "Your sister called me." His voice shifts.
Something underneath the warning, something I can't read.
"Kenna's been trying to reach you for two weeks.
She's talking about coming out to the circuit herself if you don't pick up the phone. "
"She doesn't need to be anywhere near this."
"Try telling her that. She's got your same stubborn streak and half your sense of self-preservation." A pause that lasts a beat too long. "I told her you're fine. That you're just dealing with Tyler's death in your own way. She didn't believe me, but it bought you some time."
"Since when do you and Kenna talk?"
The silence on the other end is a fraction too long. "She called the rider liaison office looking for you. They forwarded it to me because I'm listed as your emergency contact, you idiot."
The explanation is perfectly reasonable. The pause before he gave it wasn't.
Colt continues. "Be careful, Grant. Please."
"I'm always careful."
"That's a lie and we both know it."
He hangs up. Rainey's watching me with an unreadable expression.
"He's worried about you," she says.
"He worries too much."
"Or you don't worry enough." She opens the laptop again. "For what it's worth, I think he's right about one thing. If this is real, we're both in danger the moment they figure out we're digging."
"You scared?"
"Terrified." She meets my eyes. "But I'm doing it anyway."
Something about the way she says it, that combination of fear and determination, makes me see her differently. Not just a photographer documenting the circuit. Not just someone with evidence. Someone who's choosing to fight even though it scares her.
"We should set some ground rules," I say.
"Like what?"
"Like if this gets too dangerous, you walk away. Take your evidence somewhere safe and let me handle the rest."
"Not happening."
"Rainey."
"Grant." She closes the laptop. "You don't get to make that call. I'm in this because I choose to be. Not because you're letting me tag along. We're partners in this, or we're nothing."
Partners. I haven't had a partner since Tyler died. Haven't wanted one. But looking at Rainey now, at the steel in her eyes and the set of her jaw, I realize I couldn't stop her from helping even if I tried.
"Fine," I say. "Partners."
"Good. Now pull over at that diner. I need food and more coffee."
I pull into the parking lot of a roadside place that looks like it hasn't been updated since 1975.
The kind of diner that serves breakfast all day and has pies rotating in a display case by the register.
We slide into a booth, and a waitress who looks older than the building itself takes our order without writing anything down.
"You're going to get yourself killed," Rainey says once the waitress leaves.
"Probably."
"I'm serious. You beat information out of Vic. You're asking questions people clearly don't want asked. Eventually, they're going to come after you."
"Let them."
"That's not bravery. That's a death wish."
Maybe she's right. Maybe I am looking for a way to join Tyler instead of avenge him. Maybe that's why I'm riding bulls nobody else will touch and picking fights with conspiracies I can't prove exist.
Or maybe I just can't live with myself if I don't try.