Boone’s eyes narrow. “Tax fraud?”
“Big time.” Sawyer pulls his phone from his pocket and taps the screen before holding it out. “Wire transfers, off-shore accounts, falsified deductions, the works. He’s been laundering money through livestock deals that never actually happened. Selling cattle that don’t exist.”
Boone takes the phone, brows knitting together again as he scans the screen.
“That’s how he’s kept his hands clean all these years,” Sawyer continues. “Everything funneled through that ghost company. On paper, he’s just investing in agriculture—small, rural stuff, easy to pass over. But the money’s been moving in circles.”
Boone doesn’t look up. “How long has this been going on?”
“Almost a decade,” Sawyer says. “Long enough that if someone knew where to look, they could bury him in court.”
I cross my arms, the cotton of my sleeves stretching tight over my elbows, and let the silence hang for a second longer than comfortable.
“He threatened to open a bakery across the street,” I finally say, leveling my voice even though I still feel the sting of it. “Said it’d be cute and trendy. He thinks the community will flock to it, that they’ll ‘outgrow’ my place once they see something shinier.”
Boone’s head turns sharply toward me, his jaw tense, but I keep going.
“He wants to bleed the diner dry. Not just drive me out—humiliate me on the way down.” My hands drop to my sides, restless and hot. “Is thereany way we can use what you found to get him to back off?”
Sawyer presses his lips together, then exhales slowly, a quiet whistle escaping through his teeth. “If we confront him directly with all of it, he’ll panic. Either try to cover his tracks fast or get desperate and double down. But if we’re smart about it—if we let him know someone’s watching and we’ve got receipts—he might just slink back into the shadows and rethink the bakery.”
I glance toward the fields stretching out around us, dark and silent under the early summer sky. “I don’t want to scare him,” I say, then correct myself. “No, actually—I do. I want him to know I’m not just going to sit back while he takes what’s mine. This diner? It’s not some failing relic he can bulldoze with overpriced pastries and a chalkboard menu. It’s mine. It was Alice’s. It’s the town’s. And I’m done letting him act like he gets to have the final say.”
Sawyer’s eyebrows lift, and for the first time since he arrived, he looks almost impressed.
Boone turns toward me fully now and there’s something in his eyes—quiet, unflinching.
“I’m not gonna stand in your way,” he says, voice low and rough at the edges. “But if you need anything—me there with you, or just close by—I’ll be there. Whatever you need, Lark. Say the word.”
His hand finds mine, warm and sure, fingers curling around mine. He gives it a gentle squeeze.
I squeeze back. “I know.”
A breeze picks up and cuts through the heat pooling at the base of my neck. The scent of hay and blossoms drifts up from the pasture.
“Can you send me everything?” I ask, turning to Sawyer. “All of it. Whatever you’ve got.”
He nods once. “I’ll get it to you tonight. Encrypted folder. Don’t open it on any public Wi-Fi. It’s messy, but it’s solid.”
“Messy’s fine,” I say. “I just need to see it for myself.”
Sawyer crosses his arms, thumb tapping absently against his massive bicep as he thinks. “You’ll want to go in firm but not desperate. If hesmells panic, he’ll turn it into leverage. Just show him enough to suggest you’re not bluffing. Let him wonder how deep you’ve already gone.”
“Drop just enough to make him sweat.”
“Exactly,” Sawyer says. “Act like you’ve got nothing to lose. That’s what he hates most. People who aren’t scared of him.”
Boone gives a small, humorless huff beside me. “You’re already better at that than you think.”
I let out a quiet laugh. For the first time in a long while, I can see the next few steps laid out in front of me, sharp and steady. Not easy, but mine to take.
Sawyer glances toward his car like he’s finally run out of reasons to linger. “I just wanted to bring the news myself,” he says. “Felt like it deserved more than a file in your inbox.”
He nods at me. “Good luck, Lark. You’re tough. I can tell.”
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it more than I expected to. “For looking into it. For showing up.”
Boone reaches out, and the two shake hands again, firm and quick. “Appreciate it. Seriously, man.”
