But the authorities already ruled Tyler's death an accident. And Rainey already tried the circuit's formal channels and got a form letter for her trouble. They're not going to reopen the case based on a photograph and the word of a stock contractor I assaulted to get a confession.
No. If I want justice for Tyler, I'm going to have to get it myself.
And apparently, I've got a photographer who's been working on this for as long as I have, willing to help me finish it.
Tomorrow, I'll figure out the next step. Tonight, I sit in my truck in the parking lot of a bar where Tyler used to beat me at pool and drink too much tequila and laugh at his own terrible jokes, and I think about what it costs to keep a promise to someone who never heard you make it.
3
During the time I’ve spent in a truck with Rainey Weathers, I’ve learned three things: she doesn't fill silences, she drinks her coffee black, and every time I look at her, I want things I've got no business wanting.
The circuit's moving to Albuquerque. Rainey drove her van to the fairgrounds right after our conversation to claim a good parking spot before the lot filled up, then caught a ride back to Amarillo for the rest of the event. She could have found her own way back, but I suggested we travel together. Easier to plan if we're not trying to coordinate over text messages. That's what I told her, anyway. The truth is I don't want her alone on the road if whoever's behind Tyler's murder figures out she's got evidence.
She's in my passenger seat with her laptop balanced on her knees, going through photos while I drive. We've been on the highway for an hour, and she's barely said ten words.
"You always this quiet?" I ask.
"You always this talkative?"
Fair. I'm not exactly known for my conversation skills.
"What are you looking at?" I nod toward the laptop.
"Cross-referencing. Vic shows up in backgrounds at seventeen events over six months. I'm checking rider injury reports from those same events." She clicks through screens. "Ten riders injured seriously enough to miss the next event. Three career-ending injuries. Tyler's the only death, but the pattern's there."
"Someone's systematically hurting riders."
"High-profile riders," she corrects. "Not the guys fighting for points at the bottom of the standings. These are top ten competitors. People who draw crowds. People whose rides generate the most attention and the biggest prize purses."
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. "You think this is about the prize money?"
"Or insurance fraud. Or eliminating competition. Could be anything." She pulls up a spreadsheet. "But money's involved. Has to be. Vic said he was getting cash payments. That kind of operation requires funding."
"And organization. Whoever's running this has access to event schedules, knows which riders are drawing crowds, can get messages to Vic without being seen." I merge onto the highway toward New Mexico. "That's not amateur hour. That's professional."
"Which means we're out of our depth."
"Probably."
She closes the laptop, looks at me. "So why are you still doing this?"
"Because Tyler tried to tell me something before he died. Because nobody else is asking questions. Because if I don't, whoever killed him gets away with it." I glance at her. "Why are you helping?"
"Because I'm tired of documenting tragedies and calling them accidents." She's quiet for a moment. "My father died in a ranching accident when I was seventeen. Kicked in the head bya horse. The sheriff ruled it bad luck, closed the investigation in three days. But I saw the bruising. I saw where he fell. I knew it didn't add up."
"You think someone killed him?"
"I think the people who should have cared didn't look hard enough to find out." She stares out the window at the highway stretching ahead of us. "So when I see another death getting swept under the rug because it's convenient, because asking questions is harder than accepting the easy answer, I can't just walk away."
I understand that more than she knows. The need to find answers because nobody else will. The guilt of surviving when someone you care about didn't. The rage at a system that chooses convenience over truth.
"I'm sorry about your father," I say.
"I'm sorry about Tyler."
We drive in silence for a while. Comfortable silence, the kind that happens when two people understand each other without needing to explain. The landscape shifts from Texas flatland to New Mexico desert, all red rock and endless sky.
"Tell me about him," Rainey says eventually. "Tyler. What was he like?"
