Page 32 of Playing Dirty
With kids.
With her.
And suddenly, this wasn’t just a fact-finding mission anymore.
This was a gut check.
And Callie? She had no idea what was coming.
We coasted another hundred yards down the road toward the barn before Sawyer pointed toward a break in the overgrown tree line. An old gravel drive barely wide enough for the truck opened up beside a warped fence and what looked like a forgotten barn slouched in the weeds.
He didn’t say anything, just nodded once, and I turned in slowly. We rolled to a stop just behind a cluster of scrubby pines that half-blocked the view from the road. Engine off. Silence settled in like fog.
Sawyer got out first. He moved like he was in someone else’s war—eyes scanning, boots soft, one hand near his belt like something might be holstered. There wasn’t. Not today, anyway.
I followed him toward the barn, stepping over busted boards and waist-high grass. A tree limb had snapped and fallen across one section of the fence, creating a natural entry point. I gave it a light shove. Sturdy enough to crawl under, low enough not to be seen from the house across the street.
He swept the perimeter, checking for game cams, trash piles, signs of squatters. Nothing. No old tents. No weird smells. No tire tracks.
Too easy. Too quiet. Like the calm before you realize the bomb’s been under your chair the whole time.
“Clear,” Sawyer said, low and clipped, his eyes still working.
I nodded, turning slowly in place. “It’ll work. We’ve got the angle. Light’s decent too. The streetlight near the front of the house is perfect. If we’re lucky, we might be able to pick up some audio too.”
“Good access. Good cover,” he said. “We’ll come back after dark.”
I didn’t answer. Not right away.
Because in that moment, it hit me. This wasn’t about proving a point. It wasn’t about catching Matt in a lie, just to say we did.
It was about Callie.
And I needed to be sure.
The diner inside the Casper Inn looked like it hadn’t changed since 1970—and I kind of liked it for that. Faded booths, cracked leather, and the smell of coffee that had been brewing since dawn. Our table by the window gave us a view of the street, and more importantly, the Frontier Market across from it.
I’d just taken a bite of my sandwich—some sad excuse for a turkey melt—when I nearly choked.
Matt.
Walking down the sidewalk like he belonged here. Like he hadn’t left a girlfriend back in Lovelace with her heart in her hands and a calendar full of question marks.
But it wasn’t just him.
Next to him was a woman in a white blouse and black slacks—the Frontier Market uniform. She laughed at something he said and nudged him with her shoulder. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. Like this was normal.
“Tell me I’m hallucinating,” I said, swallowing hard.
Sawyer leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “That’s him.”
They disappeared inside the store.
I pushed my plate aside and stood up fast enough to rattle the saltshaker. “I’m going in.”
“No, you’re not,” Sawyer said flatly. “You walk in there, he sees you, and bolts. We lose the only advantage we’ve got.”
I clenched my fists. “So, we just sit here?”
