Sloane smiled faintly. “I may be able to help with that.”
Rylan disliked him immediately. The man did not look at him the way a fan looked at a fighter, or the way a sponsor looked at an athlete. Sloane looked at him as if he were a useful tool whose instructions had not yet been fully explained.
“What do you want?” Rylan asked.
“Nothing complicated. I want you to invite Mr. Reed to a professionally managed exhibition. A clean event. Proper medical staff, clear rules, a generous purse. The public sees a respectful contest, and everyone moves on.”
“Why do you care about Clayton Reed?”
Sloane's smile did not change. “I care about stories that grow beyond their facts. Your video has encouraged speculation about the man's background. That can be unfair to him and inconvenient to people who have no interest in being part of a local spectacle.”
Rylan glanced at Grant. “That sounds like a threat.”
“It is advice,” Sloane replied. “People often mistake the two when they're embarrassed.”
Grant quickly steered the conversation back to the offer. Sloane promised money, publicity, and access to a larger promotional network. In return, Rylan would help persuade Clayton to appear and would refrain from discussing the older man's past publicly.
Rylan leaned back. “You want me to lure him out.”
“I want you to offer him an opportunity.”
“Why can't you ask him yourself?”
For the first time, Sloane's expression cooled. “Because he might not listen to me.”
The answer stayed with Rylan after the meeting. He had come expecting a sponsor, but Sloane seemed less interested in the fight than in the person standing on the other side of it.
In the parking garage, Grant told him to accept.
“This is bigger than your pride,” Grant said. “There's money here, and a path back to the main card.”
“What if Reed says no?”
“Then we keep trying.”
“What if Sloane is hiding something?”
Grant sighed. “Everybody hides something. Your job is to fight, not investigate.”
Rylan looked through the concrete openings at the traffic crawling along the highway. He had spent years learning how to recognize a feint. He had never considered that an offer could be one.
“I'll talk to Reed,” he said. “But I'm not promising anything.”
When Rylan reached the farm, Clayton was mending a fence. He listened to the proposal, then asked one question.
“Who introduced you to Victor Sloane?”
Rylan blinked. “He contacted my manager.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“He said he wanted to keep speculation under control.”
Clayton's face grew still. “And you believed him?”
“I haven't decided what I believe.”
“That may be the first sensible thing you've said to me.”
Rylan bristled, then forced himself to stay quiet. “Will you do it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Sloane isn't interested in a fight. He's interested in what happens after it.”
Rylan studied him. “You know him.”
“I know enough to be cautious.”
The older man turned back to the fence. Rylan stood there, angry at being dismissed, but also aware that Clayton had answered more honestly than Sloane had.
For the first time, Rylan considered refusing the offer.
On the drive home, Rylan asked Grant to send him the written terms of Sloane’s proposal. Grant called the request paranoid, then forwarded a short summary with several clauses left vague. Rylan read it twice. The offer required him to avoid public comment about “historical allegations” and to encourage Clayton to attend a private meeting before any event was announced. Nothing in the wording explained why a local exhibition needed confidentiality language. He saved the message instead of deleting it. At the gym, Marcus told him that suspicion was not the same as proof, but neither was politeness a reason to ignore a warning. Rylan had spent years believing every problem could be settled by confronting it directly. Now he was beginning to understand that the person who controlled the room often controlled the story told afterward. He sent Clayton a copy of the offer and added only one sentence: “I don’t know what he’s hiding, but I won’t help him hide it.” Clayton replied several hours later: “Keep the original. Don’t embellish anything. Facts first.”
Rachel Price arrived on Sunday afternoon in a small blue sedan with a cardboard box on the passenger seat. She was fifty now, with dark hair threaded with gray and the same direct gaze Clayton remembered from the memorial service. She stepped onto the porch and held the box between them.
“I didn't know whether to send these,” she said. “Some of them are just notes. Some are letters he never mailed.”
Clayton took the box with both hands. “Thank you for trusting me with them.”
“I don't know if I do,” Rachel admitted. “But Daniel trusted you. I want to understand why.”