Daniel’s arms uncross.
“They’ve been—” My voice catches. I push my glasses up and try again. “They’ve been targeting this ranch as well as Havenridge. Both ranches. The water supply, the land value, your bank loans. I found contamination data and falsified reports. It’s systematic.”
My hands are flat on the table now because if I lift them, everyone will see the shaking. “I stole the proof. That’s why I ran.”
Silence.
Jacob leans forward. The mug comes down on the table with a deliberate care that tells me he’s controlling a reaction much bigger than the one he’s showing. “How long?”
“The documents go back at least eight months. Maybe longer.” I swallow. “I didn’t know what they were doing. Not until I started cross-referencing their internal numbers with public water data. The numbers didn’t match. None of them matched.”
I wait for the question.
Why should we trust you?
In foster care, trust is a transaction. You earn it in increments, and it can be revoked without notice. I’ve spent twenty-six years justifying my presence in rooms, proving that I deserve to stay, and bracing for the moment someone decides I don’t.
Daniel looks at his father. Jacob looks back. Something passes between them—the shorthand of men who share blood.
The question doesn’t come.
“We’ll handle it,” Jacob says.
In my experience, “We’ll handle it” means “We’ll handle you.” It means meetings behind closed doors and decisions made without your input and a packed bag by the end of the week. It means someone else has taken control, and your only job is not to make it worse.
But Jacob says it the way a man says it when he means the problem, not the person who brought it.
I grip the table edge because the room is tilting, and it has nothing to do with my head.
“Hey,” Delaney says. She hasn’t moved from her seat, but she’s leaning forward, and her brown eyes hold mine. “You’re not in trouble. You did the right thing. Don’t you dare sit there thinking you need to earn your spot at this table.”
Ethan’s hand lands on the back of my chair. The wood creaks under his grip, and his presence behind me is so solid that I could lean back and he’d catch me.
“You drove through the night to warn us.” His voice is low and even. “That’s enough.”
“Where’s this proof?” Daniel asks, his question operational rather than suspicious.
The room has already pivoted from “Are you okay?” to “What do we do?”
“A flash drive,” I say, my nerves steadying. “Yellow and black. It was in my jacket pocket.” I look at Ethan. “It’s not there anymore. I already checked.”
“Could be at the crash site,” Ethan says. There’s my problem-solver, already building a grid. “Things scatter on impact.”
“Then we’ll look.” Daniel is already pushing back from the table.
“Jenna and I,” Ethan states, quiet but firm. “We’ll check the car.”
Delaney’s hand settles on Daniel’s arm as his jaw tightens, and whatever she says with that touch, it works. He settles back.
“Eat first,” Maggie orders, aiming her spatula at me with the authority of a woman who has ended more arguments with kitchen utensils than most diplomats have with treaties. “Both of you.”
I pick up the spoon, relieved that my hands have stopped shaking.
Across the table, Delaney catches my eye and smiles warmly.
I smile back, but the foster kid in me is waiting for the other shoe to drop.
My breath stutters as all the worry and tension return in a swift rush. “That drive is the only proof. Without it, I’m just a disgruntled employee making accusations. And they’ll bury me for it.” I surge to my feet, ignoring the ache in my muscles. “I should look again…”
