“No.” Sam’s voice was firm but not unkind. “You’re not police, Bridget. This isn’t?—“
“These people have been hunting me for eight years.” Bridget’s voice rose, fierce and sharp. “They killed someone I watched die. They turned me into a person I’ve spent my whole life trying to forget. And now they’re threatening everyone I care about.” She stood, squaring her shoulders. “Don’t tell me I can’t help.”
The room went still.
Jo watched her sister—really watched her. This wasn’t the fragile girl who’d shown up on her doorstep years ago, strung out and desperate. This was someone else. Someone forged by fire.
But Sam shook his head.
“I understand,” he said. “Believe me, I do. But tomorrow night, we’re walking into a situation with unknown variables. Armed suspects, possibly federal involvement, definitely dangerous. I can’t put a civilian in the middle of that.”
“Sam—“
“What you can do,” Sam continued, “is stay by your phone. We’ll keep you updated. If something goes wrong, if we needinformation only you have, you’ll be our lifeline.” He met her eyes. “That’s not nothing, Bridget. That’s important.”
Bridget held his gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.
“Fine.” She sat back down, Kevin’s hand still in hers. “But you promise me—all of you—that you’ll be careful. That you’ll come back.”
“We promise,” Jo said.
She hoped it wasn’t a lie.
They gathered around the coffee table, the evidence box sitting in the center like a bomb waiting to detonate.
“Walk us through it,” Sam said.
Wyatt pulled out his phone. His hands were steady, but Jo could see the tension in his jaw, the way his thumb hovered over the screen.
“I text the number they’ve been using. Tell them I have what they want. Ask where they want it delivered.”
“And then?”
“Then we wait.”
The room held its breath.
Wyatt typed slowly, each word deliberate:
I have what you need. Case 2012-0847. Where do you want it?
He looked up at Sam. Sam nodded.
Wyatt hit send.
The phone sat on the table between them, screen glowing in the dim light. Seconds stretched into minutes. Jo found herself counting heartbeats, each one louder than the last.
Pickles meowed softly from his perch on the couch. Lucy’s ears pricked forward.
Then the phone buzzed.
Everyone leaned in.
Midnight. Old mill on Route 7. Come alone.
Wyatt exhaled—a long, shaky breath. “Tomorrow night.”
“Twenty-four hours,” Kevin said. “That gives us time to plan.”