Page 65 of Montana Memory

Jada sucked in a breath. I could see her working through it, all the possibilities colliding in her head.

“Or you could die,” Beckett added in an almost peppy tone. “That’s also a possibility.”

The air between us tightened.

Jada finally reached out and took the vial from him, her grip delicate, as if it might break apart in her hands. Beckett watched her carefully, his gaze sharpening in a way I didn’t like.

His whole body was beginning to vibrate more with a restless energy, like he was fighting off something internal and losing. His gaze darted between us, his pupils blown wide. The paranoia was creeping back in, swallowing whatever clarity he’d had left.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Things are getting worse.”

Jada took a small step forward, her voice soft but steady. “Would it help if we left?”

His breath hitched. He gave a sharp nod. “Yes.”

That was all I needed. This conversation was done. Whatever use Beckett had been to us was expiring quickly, burned up by his own mind spiraling into chaos.

I’d seen this before—hell, I’d lived it. Sometimes, the brain just shut down. No more questions, no more digging for answers. You had to know when to let go.

But Jada hesitated. “Is there anything we can do for you?”

Beckett let out a rough, exhausted laugh, rubbing at his temple with a shaking hand. “No. Nobody can do anything for me.”

Something flashed in his expression, cutting through the fractured edges of his paranoia. He turned to Jada, his eyes clearing just enough that I saw the man he used to be. The regret. The weight of what he’d done.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. He reached out, taking her hands in his, his fingers bony. “I’m sorry you were a victim of this. I hope you handle it better than I have.”

Jada swallowed, her fingers tightening slightly around his. “Do you have any advice? Anything that might help?”

Beckett blinked, his expression going distant. He muttered something, so low I barely caught it.

“Bologna sandwiches.”

Jada frowned. “What?”

“And Tahiti.” He nodded sagely, completely serious. “Always wanted to go to Tahiti.”

Whatever moment of clarity he’d had was now gone. Whatever piece of him had surfaced had slipped beneath the current again, lost in the mess of his broken mind.

I wrapped a hand around Jada’s wrist and pulled her gently back. “Come on.”

She didn’t resist. I guided her toward the door, not bothering with goodbyes. Beckett was already mumbling under his breath about how sandwiches used to taste better in the eighties.

Outside, the trailer door clicked shut behind us, locking Beckett back in his own world.

Movement caught my eye. A neighbor, slumped in a rickety lawn chair, stared at a tiny, flickering TV screen on his porch. He looked away when I met his eyes, just a glint of interest, before turning back to his program.

I wasn’t surprised. A guy like Beckett—paranoid, manic, unpredictable—was probably the biggest source of entertainment in this run-down place.

Jada climbed into the truck without a word. I shut her door, rounding to my side. As I slid behind the wheel, my eyes flicked down.

The vial was still clutched in her hand, her knuckles white.

I turned the key in the ignition, gravel crunching beneath the tires as I pulled us away from Beckett’s world of ghosts and regrets.

The truck hummed beneath us, the long stretch of road back to Resting Warrior Ranch winding through the darkening landscape. The sun had started to dip, casting long shadows over the fields, but I barely noticed. My focus was on the woman beside me.

Jada didn’t speak much as we left the trailer park. Just sat stiffly in the passenger seat, staring at the vial in her palm like it held all the answers she needed—and all the dangers she feared.

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