Page 58 of Montana Justice

I thought about making more excuses, but the truth was, I wanted to go. Wanted to pretend, just for one night, that I belonged in their warm, chaotic circle. That I was the kind of woman who could be part of something good without destroying it.

“Okay,” I heard myself say. “We’ll be there.”

The children chose that moment to converge on the rabbit hutches en masse, requiring all hands to prevent a mass bunny liberation. By the time we’d restored order and convinced Tysonthat rabbits didn’t need to be “freed into the wild,” it was time for them to head home.

“Remember,” Emma said as she buckled Tyson into his car seat, “six o’clock. Don’t make me send out a search party.”

After they left, I stood in the sudden quiet of the barn, Caleb sleeping against my chest. This was what I was going to lose. These women who’d welcomed me without question, who’d made me feel normal for the first time in my life. Who’d made me believe, even for brief moments, that I could be more than Ray Matthews’s daughter.

When they found out the truth—and they would, eventually—they’d look at me the way Maria Rosario had. Like I was toxic. Like I’d proved that the apple truly never did fall far from the tree.

I pulled out my phone to text Lachlan about dinner, trying to ignore the way my hands shook. Another lie of omission, another step deeper into a life that wasn’t really mine. But I’d take it. I’d take every moment of belonging I could steal, store them up against the cold that was coming.

Because winter always came. And when it did, I’d need these memories to keep me warm in whatever cage—literal or metaphorical—I ended up in.

But for tonight, I’d pretend. I’d sit at their table and laugh at their jokes and let myself believe in the fairy tale a little longer.

It was all I had left.

Chapter 20

Lachlan

The conference roomat Warrior Security had better tech than anything at the sheriff’s department, which was exactly why we were meeting here instead of my office. That, and the fact that I couldn’t shake the feeling that every word spoken in my own building might be finding its way to the wrong ears.

I’d started keeping all files related to the trafficking case either at home or here at Warrior Security. My own deputies didn’t know about half the operations we were planning anymore. The thought made my stomach turn—these were people I’d worked with for years. But someone was feeding information to the traffickers, and until I knew who, I couldn’t risk another blown operation.

The men in this room, I knew could be trusted.

Hunter sat at the head of the table, his scarred hands flat on the polished surface. The former Special Forces soldier had built Warrior Security from the ground up, creating a team that handled everything from personal protection to tacticaloperations. His cousin Lucas ran the therapeutic side of Resting Warrior Ranch, but Hunter handled the sharp end of the spear.

Beckett sat to my right, spinning a pen between his fingers in that restless way he had. My best friend since middle school had found his calling with Warrior Security after leaving the sheriff’s department. He still had the cop instincts but without the bureaucratic constraints.

The other two men, Ryan Cooper—Coop to everyone—and Aiden McAllister, I didn’t know as well, but both men had saved my life on more than one occasion, so they had my trust.

“Travis, you’re up,” Hunter said, gesturing to the massive screen mounted on the far wall.

Travis Hale’s face filled the display. Even through video, I could see the telltale signs of someone who rarely left their house—pale skin, hair that needed cutting badly enough that it hung in his eyes, and what looked like the same black T-shirt he’d worn to our last three virtual meetings. Empty energy drink cans littered the desk behind him, and I caught a glimpse of at least four computer monitors glowing in his background. Maybe five.

Travis was Warrior Security’s secret weapon—a hacker who’d been recruited by the CIA straight out of high school, spent five years doing things he couldn’t talk about in places that didn’t officially exist, then had some kind of breakdown and retreated to his compound on the south side of town. Hunter had somehow convinced him to do contract work for Warrior Security, all conducted remotely from his heavily secured home.

“I’ve been through everything,” Travis said without preamble. No greeting, no small talk. That was Travis—brilliant with computers, less comfortable with people. “Every log-in, every access record, every digital footprint from your department for the past six months. Also hacked into personal devices, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

My jaw tightened. Three days ago, we’d had another blown operation. Perfect intel about weapons being smuggled in some animal feed. Surveillance footage showing activity, the truck’s planned route, everything lined up—and then nothing. By the time we’d gotten there, the truck had obviously been emptied.

It had been just like the Highway 37 checkpoint. And the Murphy farm search.

“And?” Beckett prompted from his seat beside me. He’d been the one to suggest bringing Travis in, knowing the hacker could find digital breadcrumbs everyone else missed.

“Nothing definitive.” Travis’s fingers flew across a keyboard we couldn’t see, the rapid-fire clicking audible through the speakers. Data started populating on a shared screen—financial records, phone logs, access time stamps, browser histories. Months of lives reduced to data points. “Deputy Carlson has some gambling debts—poker games at the Riverside Casino, some online sports betting through offshore sites. Nothing huge but consistent losses. About eight grand in the hole over the past year.”

“Eight grand’s enough to make someone desperate,” Coop observed, though his relaxed posture didn’t change. “Especially on a deputy’s salary.”

“Maybe,” Travis said, pulling up more records. “But his payment patterns are consistent. He’s making minimums on two credit cards, keeping current on his truck loan. No calls from collectors showing up in his phone records, no liens filed. If he’s feeling the pressure, he’s hiding it well.”

“Or someone’s helping him hide it,” Hunter suggested. “Cash payments wouldn’t show up in these records.”

Travis nodded on-screen, taking a swig from what looked like his sixth energy drink. “That’s the problem with digital surveillance. It only catches the stupid ones. Smart criminals still use cash.”

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