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“Look,” he said. “I’m not here to drag you into anything. I’m offering an opportunity. One test fight. See how you feel. You don’t like it, you walk. No contracts, no long-term handcuffs. You keep your day job, I get a read on whether you’re right for the circuit. That’s it.”

I’d come here straddling the fence. Part of me yearned to go further. Not be under Cappy’s thumb. Part of me wanted to listen to the smarmy bastard and turn him down flat.

But that little slip—You’ve got roots, family—and the way he’d skated past my questions about how much he knew had shifted the ground under my feet. This wasn’t some sleazy recruiter trying to pad his roster. This was something bigger. Organized. With eyes on places they shouldn’t be.

If I just walked away now, that didn’t make it disappear.

It just made me blind to it.

“Test fight,” I repeated.

“Practice,” he said, nodding. “I saw you training. I know you’re hurt. We start you with something smart. A week or two out. Lower weight class. Get your legs under you. You show up on time, you follow the rules, you show me you’re not a headache, we talk about what’s next.”

My ribs twinged at the thought of “a week or two.” Realistically, I needed six.

Realistically, I shouldn’t be considering this at all.

But his slip had done its job. I needed to know what this was. How big. How close. Whether there were other guys from Cappy’s already involved. Whether anyone had eyes on Chloe’s building in Gatlinburg or my sister-in-law’s houses in Jasper Creek.

You couldn’t take something like this to Nash on a hunch and a bad feeling. “Hey, Sheriff, I had coffee with a guy who gave me the creeps,” wasn’t exactly probable cause.

I needed something tangible.

“Okay,” I said.

Maurice’s eyes sharpened. “Okay?”

“One practice fight,” I said. “You tell me when and where. I decide after that if I’m in.”

His smile went slick. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The waitress reappeared with my coffee. She set the mug down, topped off Maurice’s without asking, and slid the check to the edge of the table.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she said, then moved on to refill someone else’s cup at the counter.

Maurice reached into his coat, pulled out a wad of cash, and tucked a twenty under the edge of the check. Then he stood, smoothing his shirt like he’d just finished a business lunch.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said, and offered his hand.

I took it.

His grip was firm, dry, too warm. He squeezed once, just a hair too long, like he thought intimidation could be transmitted through palm-to-palm contact.

Then he let go, slid out of the booth, and walked out without looking back.

I sat there with my back to the door and my eyes on my coffee cup, listening to the bell jingle as the diner door closed behind him.

The mug was chipped at the rim. The coffee inside was dark and smelled like it had been sitting on the burner since noon.

I took a sip.

It was terrible.

And still, as the bitter burn hit my tongue and slid down my throat, a realization landed with it.

For the first time in longer than I could remember, I wasn’t actively wallowing.

I wasn’t replaying the miscarriages, or the look on Chloe’s face when she moved out, or the way the nursery door mostly stayed closed.