Page 14 of Savage Surrender

My thumb catches under the warm edge of my collar. Whoever spoke earned that laugh. She laughed like that without us.

Weller leans closer. “Look at her.”

“My favorite thing to do.”

“She just finished turning a toothbrush into a weapon and has moved on to giving the butter knives a razor blade edge, if you’d like to court death in person.”

I laugh under my breath.

I found her stash beneath the mattress this morning: a wooden spoon with two nails hammered through the bowl, a pie cutter, a butter knife she’s grinding into something sharp, a lighter, and a fistful of zip ties she stole from the guard.

I let her believe I haven’t noticed.

The next Mason note is six lines and one problem.

TRUSCENT. F.M. / T.B. / W.D. / O.W. Age 16. Target W.M. Barrett trial index, underlying record missing.

Weller’s thumb stops against the laptop’s edge. “Sixteen?”

“That’s the part you’d like clarified?”

“Every part needs clarification.”

So far, the note clarifies nothing. The TruScent file we found before the preserve was designed to fake a scent match where none existed. This one names the four of us four years before they forced a bond on us, and Mason found only the index entry. No objective. No result. Nothing that explains what Montgomery and our fathers were trying to do to us at sixteen.

I switch to Whitney’s USB and type TruScent into the search field.

No results.

Thousands of files sit beneath dates, invoice numbers, initials, and labels that mean nothing outside Whitney’s head.

I start building an index of the files. The fan wakes with an asthmatic whine, and a progress bar appears at the bottom of the screen.

Weller watches the progress bar advance by one stubborn pixel. “How long will this take?”

“Longer if you keep asking.”

His hazel eyes lift from the screen and stay on me until I return to the files. I sort the unfiled documents by date and begin opening previews while the index crawls behind them. Most are useless. Receipts. Screenshots of messages. Invoices.

Two saved articles appear beside a photocopied payment slip.

Local man critical after red-light collision.

Driver killed in single-vehicle crash on Route 9.

I open the first and scan it. A drunk driver ran a red light and hit another car head-on. The victim was left in critical condition.

Winston Quinn, 26, longtime resident of Emerald Hills.

The second article was published weeks later. The drunk driver, who was released on bail, died on a back road when his car hit a tree. The death was ruled an accident. He’d fallen asleep on the way home after a bartending shift.

The payment slip is for ten thousand dollars. No memo. No name. I drag it beside the headlines.

Weller braces one hand on the back of the couch and presses the other forearm against his ribs. “This makes it seem like Winston’s accident wasn’t an accident.”

But only one man needed Winston in a hospital badly enough to guarantee Bianca would come home. Anyone who spends five minutes with her knows there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for her brother. If Montgomery wanted to bait her into range, Winston was the line to pull.

I enlarge the payment slip until the amount blurs at the edges. “I would agree. It doesn’t prove anything, though.”