Page 50 of Her Rival

She didn't respond to that. She set her bag down on the bench at the foot of the bed.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome."

"Jett."

"Yeah."

"You haven't asked me a single question tonight that wasn't about my safety."

"I know."

"You're going to have to ask me other questions at some point."

"I know that too."

"But not tonight."

"No," I said. "Not tonight."

I stood in the doorway with my hand on the doorframe. She was three feet away. We'd been three feet apart in the video review room ten days ago, and less than a foot apart in the entryway the night before, and we were three feet apart again, and the three feet was a new kind of three feet. A deliberate one. A three feet I was choosing on purpose.

"Sleep," I said. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything. I'm a light sleeper. I won't lock you in."

"You won't lock me in," she repeated, like she was making sure she'd heard it right.

"No. The door of this room locks from the inside only. There's a deadbolt on the front door of the house, but you can hear it from in here if it moves. Nobody's getting in this house tonight. I want you to know that before you close your eyes."

She nodded.

"Goodnight, Hartley."

"Goodnight, Jett."

I closed the door.

I stood in the hallway with my hand still on the doorframe, listening for whether she'd lock it.

She did not.

I walked back to the kitchen. Picked up my phone. Took a photograph of the photograph she'd taken back, which I'd asked her permission to do before she handed it to me and which she'd given with a small dry nod. I sent it to a man in California whose name I hadn't said out loud in three years and who was the only private investigator I'd ever paid a retainer to, an old retainer I'd let lapse last summer that I now paid back into within ninety seconds of taking the picture. I wrote three sentences in the email. Attached the photograph. Sent it.

Then I deleted the email from my sent folder. Habit.

I picked the phone up again. Texted Mary Beth.

If you get a call from a Vegas number you don't recognize in the next 48 hours, answer. I'm fine. Just need somebody who knows my voice on the other end.

She replied inside of two minutes. Okay.

I put the phone down.

I did not call Coach. I did not call Rhett. I did not call Victoria.

I did call one number. An old one. The head of security for the entire Caldwell sports and entertainment empire, a man named Hollis Briar I'd met at the championship after-party, who'd taken the time to write his cell on a cocktail napkin and tell me to call him if I ever needed anything, which I had not until that moment intended to ever do. He picked up on the second ring.

"Sturgill."