Page 81 of Monk

He looked... content.

More at ease than I’d seen him in months.

Joan had that effect on him.

Kali was talking with her whole body, hands flying as she made some point that had Vivi laughing—really laughing, head tipped back, eyes bright in a way I hadn’t seen since Pence died. The sound of it made something in my chest ease, just a little.

It was good to see.

Good to know she was finding her way back.

I didn’t want to interrupt.

Didn’t want to yank Shadow away from whatever rare moment of peace he’d found. So I turned instead and headed toward the pool table, looking for something simple to anchor myself to before I dealt with the rest of the mess riding on my shoulders.

Blackjack was there, bent over the felt with one eye narrowed, cue lined up like he was sighting down a rifle barrel as he sank the eight ball with a smooth, practiced stroke, the crack of impact sharp in the room, then straightened with that cocky grin of his like he’d just done something worthy of applause. “Still got it,” he said to no one in particular.

I walked up beside him and crossed my arms, watching the balls roll to a stop. “You playing solo now?” I asked.

Blackjack glanced at me, grin widening the second he got a good look at my face.

“Widow bailed after I beat his ass three games in a row,” he said. “Claimed I was cheating.”

“Were you?”

“Fuck no,” Blackjack said, laughing. “I’m just that good.”

I snorted. “Sure you are.”

Blackjack bent to rack the balls for another game, movements quick and practiced, then asked without looking at me, “You good? You’ve been gone a while.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m good.” I wasn’t. Not even close. But I would be, once I handled this.

Shadow must have clocked me from across the room, because a moment later, he peeled away from the bar and headed over, hands shoved into his pockets, expression shifting from easy to alert as he got closer.

“Monk,” he said, giving me a nod. “What’s up?”

I reached into my cut, pulled out the stack of bills—medical statements, past-due notices, bank letters, all of it—and handedthem to Blackjack. “I need these taken care of,” I said. “As soon as possible. No delays. No excuses.”

Blackjack took the stack, and whatever humor had been on his face vanished in an instant. He flipped through the papers fast, eyes scanning dates, amounts, account numbers, creditors. His mouth flattened more with every page. Then he frowned.

“What?” I asked.

Blackjack looked up at me, brow furrowed, and held one of the bank statements between two fingers. “This doesn’t make sense,” he said.

I stiffened.

“What doesn’t make sense?”

Blackjack lifted the statement a little higher. “The Wilcox Farm,” he said. “This is their account, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Monk,” Blackjack said slowly, tone turning careful in a way that put me instantly on edge. “The Wilcox Farm is one of the most prosperous operations in the county. Been around for generations. They’ve got contracts with half the ranches in Oklahoma. Their reputation is rock solid.”

“So?”

“So there’s no reason they should be in this kind of trouble,” Blackjack said, tapping the stack with the back of his knuckles. “Revenue down? Clients lost? A farm like theirs doesn’t just start bleeding out unless something else is going on.”