“Oh, I don’t fucking know, because you haven’t told me what the fuck you’re hiding, little brother.”

“Let me make some calls,” I tell him, keeping my tone even. “Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow.”

Malerick doesn’t move. His gaze stays locked on me, assessing, weighing whatever calculations are running through his head. Then he shakes his head.

“Those guys. The agents from CQS.” His voice is low, measured. “They aren’t just your friends, are they?”

I don’t react.

It’d be so simple to just tell him the truth. That Sanford and his people don’t work for CQS, but The Organization. That the only reason they stepped in last time was because the owner of CQS is his brother-in-law. That this runs deeper than he knows.

But I don’t.

I lean against the wall, playing with the knife, keeping my expression blank. “Not sure what you’re talking about.”

Malerick lets out a slow exhale, but there’s something knowing in his eyes. He doesn’t press, doesn’t push for more. Just studies me, like he’s already made his own conclusions and he’s waiting to see if I’ll confirm them.

“You talk to your people,” he says finally, voice rough with something I can’t quite place. “When you have the green light to tell me, I’ll be in my office.”

And then he turns, shoulders tight as he stalks down the hallway. Doesn’t look back.

I watch him go, my fingers twitching at my side, the tension in my chest coiled too tight.

Will he help? Or is he going to turn into another problem?

Because if Malerick becomes an obstacle, I’ll have to deal with him, too. And I really don’t want to do that. After all, he’s my fucking brother.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Malerick Timberbridge doesn’t deal in paranoia.

Facts. Evidence. Patterns. That’s what matters. He pays attention to details—the ones most people ignore, the ones that mean the difference between walking away and never getting the chance. It’s what made him a good FBI agent. It’s what makes him a good sheriff.

But tonight?

Tonight, nothing lines up the way it should.

He presses his fingers to his temple, releasing a slow breath as the line rings.

Once.

Twice.

Then Finnegan Gil picks up, his voice laced with irritation. “Isn’t it a little late for a social call? Or is there a problem?”

Malerick shifts the phone to his other ear, pacing the length of his office. “You ever know me to call with good news?”

A pause. A click. Then another voice filters in—Derek Farrow, sounding half-asleep and wholly unamused. “We have a kid teething and a pregnant wife. Somebody better be dying, or you can figure it out yourself.”