Page 22 of Montana Memory

I didn’t hesitate. “Alan Ard injected her with it.”

The second the name left my mouth, Caleb reacted. His fist slammed against the table, hard enough to make the glass between us shudder. A sharp curse tore from his lips. The guard at the far end of the room glanced over, but I didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

“Itoldher to stay away from that son of a bitch,” Caleb seethed, his voice low but thick with fury. “I told her he was bad fucking news from the beginning.”

“She didn’t listen,” I said. “And now she’s paying the price.”

Caleb’s nostrils flared, his breathing uneven as he tried to rein himself in. His fingers twitched where they rested on the table, like he wanted to wrap them around Alan’s throat.

“He’s back in here,” I said, watching him closely. “Got re-arrested. He’s facing trial for multiple attempted murders.”

Caleb let out a slow breath, but his fury didn’t ease. If anything, it settled into something harder. Colder. “I heard something about that,” he muttered. “Didn’t know the details.” His jaw clenched. “Figures. He’s going away for good this time. Deserves it.”

I didn’t disagree. Alan Ard deserved worse than a prison cell.

I pushed back my chair, feeling the significance of the conversation settling deep in my chest. There was nothing more Caleb could tell me—not about the drug, not about an antidote. Now, it was on me to track down Copper and start getting real answers.

I was about to hang up the receiver when Caleb spoke again.

“What’s your deal with Jada?”

I paused, my grip tightening slightly. “Just trying to help.”

Caleb’s gaze stayed on mine, like he was measuring the weight of my words. Then, slowly, he nodded. “She’s got no one else,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Our home life wasn’t great growing up.” His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Mom was a piece of work. Mean as hell. And Jada…she took the worst of it.”

I stayed silent, letting him talk.

“She wanted something good,” he continued, his tone raw. “Something better than what we had. Alan? He played her like a goddamn fiddle. Told her what she wanted to hear. Made her think he loved her.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “She was so damn excited about him. About the idea that someone actuallywantedher.”

I clenched my jaw. I could picture it too easily. A girl who’d been beaten down her whole life, desperate for someone to see her, to choose her. And Alan, the bastard, had used that desperation like a weapon.

Caleb’s eyes flicked back to mine. “Now, she’s alone again.”

No, she wasn’t.

I straightened, meeting his gaze head on. “I’ll do what I can.”

Caleb studied me for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “Good.”

The guard called time, stepping forward to haul Caleb back. He didn’t fight it, just shot me one last look before disappearing through the secured door.

I stepped out of the prison, the cool air hitting me as I made my way to my truck. The meeting with Caleb had given me more questions than answers, but at least I had a lead.Copper. A name to chase down. A direction.

But as soon as I stepped outside, I realized I was wasting an opportunity while I was here. Alan Ard was in this prison too. I knew he was a bastard, but bastards talked when they thought they had the upper hand. If there was even the smallest chance he knew something about the drug—or an antidote—I needed to hear it from him.

I leaned against the side of my truck and pulled out my phone. Jace answered on the first ring.

“Get what you need from Moyer?”

“To a degree. A punk drug dealer to track down. But I thought, while I’m here, I should kill two birds with one visit and go see Alan Ard. Can you get me on his list under a different name?”

Jace exhaled through his nose. “Give me two minutes.”

I waited, watching a group of men in jumpsuits being led across the yard beyond the razor-wire fence. Two minutes later exactly, my phone vibrated.

“You’re in,” Jace said. “Welcome to your new identity, Roger Crane. Try not to get arrested.”

I hung up and pulled off my cap, shoving it into the truck. Then I swapped my shirt for one in the back seat—gray button-down instead of navy T-shirt, nothing special. The key wasn’t the clothes. It wasme.

---