Wyatt found a section markedStreet Contact. Most of it was scrubbed—names replaced with blocks, addresses blurred, entire lines missing—but the bones were there. An interview date. A note about a “female transient” who’d been picked up behind the bus station. Another note:Left Shelter / Unknown Whereabouts.
His stomach turned.
“You need to go,” he said.
“What?”
“Out of town. Tonight. Somewhere he can’t find you.”
“Wyatt, I can’t just?—”
“Yes, you can.” His voice came out harder than he meant. He softened it. “Ma, if he’s here, if he found me, then he knows about you. You’re leverage. You know how he operates.”
The line went quiet except for the faint sound of her breathing.
“I have people,” she said finally. “From before. They can get me somewhere safe.”
“Good. Do it. Tonight.”
“What about you?”
Wyatt kept scrolling. Each page felt like a betrayal. Each click was another lie to Sam, to the team, to everyone who’d trusted him.
“I’ll handle it,” he said.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
His mother sighed, and he could picture her—standing in her kitchen, one hand pressed to her forehead, trying to think through options that didn’t exist.
“He’ll hurt you if you don’t give him what he wants.”
“He’ll hurt someone else if I do.”
Wyatt hit another subsection. The kind no one wrote unless they wanted it buried.
Female Contact provided details re: disposal procedures.
Contact claims knowledge of organizational hierarchy.
Contact refused formal statement. No fixed address.
Follow-up failed. Contact whereabouts unknown.
His mouth went dry.
“When are you leaving?” he asked.
“I’ll call them now. Be gone by morning.”
“Don’t tell me where.”
“Wyatt—”
“I mean it, Ma. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell anyone. Just go.”
Another pause. Longer this time.