Page 57 of Mason

“What about the other matter?”

I blink, still processing the news about Clay, still trying to steady the rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

The lawyer presses his lips together, his expression carefully neutral, but the slight shift in his stance tells me whatever he’s about to say isn’t good.

Then, with a small shake of his head, he delivers the blow.

“No dice. Someone really wants to keep your friend locked up.”

I don’t know who they’re talking about.

I don’t know the weight of what’s being discussed.

But I feel it.

It’s in the way Mason’s shoulders tighten, the way his fingers flex against the steering wheel, the way the air in the car grows thick, heavy with unspoken tension.

Mason’s jaw ticks. “And the evidence?”

The lawyer exhales, shifting his briefcase from one hand to the other.

“Flimsy, at best. But I’ve seen people get convicted on much less.”

I watch the exchange, curious despite myself, trying to piece together the underlying weight of their conversation.

Who are they talking about?

And why does Mason suddenly look like he’s barely containing the urge to break something?

A long moment passes before Mason drags a hand through his hair, his movements slow, controlled. Then he nods once—silent acceptance.

“Let me know the moment the release papers are signed,” he says, his voice void of any emotion.

The lawyer nods and steps away, already moving toward his own car.

I barely have time to process what just happened before Mason pulls out his phone, sending off a quick text.

I shift in my seat, my mind still catching up.

I realize something then.

Mason doesn’t just know people.

He has people.

On standby. On call. For everything.

It’s not just convenient.

It’s efficient. Intriguing.

And maybe just a little dangerous.

The silencein the car stretches between us, thick with unspoken words. Mason grips the wheel, his knuckles tight, his jaw locked as he navigates the streets with the kind of quiet control that makes it clear he’s thinking. It’s a little unnerving, but I know the question is coming. I can feel it hanging in the air between us, coiled like a viper waiting to strike.

“How do you know Saxon North?” Mason finally asks, his voice rough—like the question has been sitting on his tongue too long, burning to be spoken. He clears his throat, as if debating whether he should even ask, but his patience—what little he has—is running thin.

I glance at him, studying his profile—the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the flicker of headlights catching in his dark eyes. He doesn’t look my way, just keeps his attention on the road, but there’s something about the way he holds himself that tells me he’s paying close attention to every word I say.

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