Page 46 of Bram

Next sheet: “This is the letter from the governor’s office, the one that pressured the DA’s office to create a vacancy for you. He threatened to release dirt on the governor if he didn’t comply.”

She pushed the documents forward, each page heavier than the last. “He built your career. Every interview, every award, every case you won—he either orchestrated it or made sure you’d have what you needed to survive the next round.” Mom’s voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, something just shy of rage.

Emma said, “He’s been pulling your strings since you were fifteen.” Her tone was flat, almost bored, but her eyes were bright. “Like you were a puppet.”

I didn’t look at Emma. I couldn’t. I was still caught on that photograph, the memory of the Colonel’s hand on my shoulder. I remembered the feel of it, the weight. “Why did you never tell me?” I said. I meant it for Mom, but it hung there for everyone.

Mom’s hand found the mug again. She didn’t sip. She just held on. “I thought I could protect you if I kept quiet. He promised me if I did what he said, he’d leave you and Emma alone. When I tried to leave, he made it clear he’d take you both. I kept my head down. That’s what mothers do.”

There was a scraping sound as Bram finally moved—just a muscle twitch, but it made everyone look at him. He stared at the graduation photo, then at the wire transfer, then at me. His eyes weren’t kind. They weren’t angry, either. They were just—blank.

Rusty said, “So what’s the move? Do we dump this all at the DA’s office, or do we burn him down ourselves?”

His question was rhetorical, but Mom answered anyway. “You have to be smarter than him. He’ll expect you to go public. That’s why you need leverage.” She slid another slip of paper into the middle of the table. It was a single sheet, handwritten, with the Colonel’s initials at the bottom. “This is his personal ledger. Every bribe, every debt, every favor owed. I took it from his safe.”

For a long time, nobody said anything. Emma’s breathing was the only sound, slow and even, like she was practicing for something.

I stared at the ledger. I wanted to throw up.

Mom said, “I kept this stuff because I knew someday it would save you. Or kill him.” She looked at Bram. “I know what you want to do with it. But I needed the girls safe first.”

Bram’s eyes found hers. There was a long, electric pause.

Then he said nothing, and just looked at the paperwork, like he could end the whole story just by pressing it flat to the table.

No one touched the coffee. No one touched each other. The heat from outside felt like it was bleeding straight through the drywall, cooking us all alive.

Mom set the mug down and folded her hands, fingers interlocked, so tight the knuckles went almost blue. “There’s something else,” she said. She looked at Rusty first, and in that split-second I knew—he knew too. He looked at her like a man who’d already been shot and was just waiting to see if the bullet would finish the job.

Mom said, “Emma’s father isn’t the Colonel. It’s Rusty.”

I felt my pulse thump in my ears. Emma went totally still. Rusty’s arms dropped from his chest. He looked at Sally, then at Emma, then back at Sally. He didn’t move otherwise, not even a flinch.

“I told her in the holding room,” Emma said. She didn’t sound angry or sad—just done. Like a cup poured empty. “It made more sense than the other story.”

Bram didn’t react. At all. He just kept watching the pile of evidence in the middle of the table, not blinking, not moving, like he was willing it to combust.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” Bram asked Rusty.

“Same reason as her,” Rusty said, tilting his head at Sally. “He would have killed all three of them. Then me. He needed to think they belonged to him. At least until he got out and I could strangle his smug ass.”

I realized I was crying. Not sobbing, just a silent spill of water that cut down my jaw. I didn’t wipe it away. My vision went watery around the edges, and I blinked to clear it, but it just kept going, a faucet with a busted gasket. A person could be hard as nails, but life didn’t give a shit. Sometimes it beat you down into submission, and you needed a good cry. I tried to breathe, but the air was thick, stuck. I looked at Bram, looked at his scarred hands, looked anywhere except at Mom.

Mom reached for the mug and missed. Instead, she pushed the ledger closer to Bram, the paper sliding over a sticky patch of old syrup. “He’ll kill them both,” she said. “You think he cares about losing daughters? He cares about losing leverage. And right now, they’re not just useless, they’re dangerous.”

Rusty’s hand tightened on hers. Emma watched it.

Bram finally moved. He pulled the paperwork across the table, squared the edges, and flipped through each page in sequence, his eyes darting fast. When he finished, he set the stack down and looked at Rusty.

“Call Church,” Bram said. His voice was so quiet I barely heard it.

Rusty nodded and stood, letting his hand linger on Sally’s for a half-beat before he left.

Bram looked at me again. There was something like apology in the set of his eyes, but I couldn’t read it, not then. “We hit first,” he said. He pointed at the dirt on my father. “Once he’s dead, we turn it all over to the authorities. His next stop isn’t going to be another prison. It’s going to be the grave.”

Mom sat back, shoulders slumping for the first time since she’d come in the room. She looked at me and tried for a smile, but her face didn’t have the muscle memory for it. “Sorry I didn’t do better,” she said.

Emma leaned her head against my shoulder. She was trembling. I put my arm around her, felt her bones vibrating through the cheap polyester of my T-shirt.