Chapter 7: Paper Trails (Caleb POV)

I don’t sleep. The couch feels like rocks under me, and my head’s too loud—Ryan’s clipped words, that look in his eyes, the secrets he’s keeping. I’m up before dawn, pulling on my boots quiet so he doesn’t hear. He’s still in the backroom, probably crashed out. I grab the loan papers from my jeans, stuff them in my jacket, and slip out. The Static’s dark, air cold and stale as I lock the door behind me.

Benji’s place is a ten-minute drive—a cramped apartment above a pizza joint, smells like grease and weed. I text him when I’m close, and he buzzes me up. He’s waiting at the door, hair a mess, drumsticks tucked in his back pocket. “Early, man,” he says, yawning. “You look like crap.”

“Didn’t sleep,” I mutter, stepping inside. His place is a mess—pizza boxes, cables everywhere, a beat-up laptop on a folding table. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding to the table. “Set it up. Let’s see what’s in those papers.”

I pull the loan docs out, spread them across the table. They’re wrinkled, ink smudged in spots, but the numbers glare up at me—fifty grand, due Friday. My stomach twists. Benji grabs his laptop, fires it up, screen glowing blue in the dim room. “Gimme the basics,” he says, fingers hovering over the keys.

“Loan’s killing us,” I say, pointing at the top page. “Ryan’s been weird since last night—went somewhere, won’t say where. I need to know why.”

Benji nods, starts typing. “Company name?”

I squint at the header. “Uh—Carver Holdings. That’s who’s got the debt now.”

His hands stop. He looks at me, eyes sharp. “Carver? Like Miles Carver?”

“Yeah,” I say, slow. “You know him?”

“Enough,” he says, voice tight. “Tech guy, big money. Plays dirty. If he’s in this, it’s bad news.”

My chest goes cold. “Ryan’s been dodging me. Think he met him?”

“Maybe,” Benji says, turning back to the laptop. “Let’s dig.”

He scans the first page with his phone, uploads it. I watch, leaning over his shoulder. The screen fills with numbers, dates—stuff I don’t get. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing at a line.

“Payment history,” he says. “Shows what Ryan’s paid, what’s left. But—look.” He zooms in. “Interest rate’s jacked up here. Fifteen percent, then bam—thirty. That’s not normal.”

I frown. “What’s it mean?”

“Means someone’s screwing him,” he says, scrolling. “Rates don’t jump like that unless it’s rigged.” He flips to another page—signatures at the bottom. “This Ryan’s?”

I lean closer. “No,” I say, sure. “That’s not his writing. Too loopy.”

Benji whistles low. “Forged. Someone signed for him.” He types fast, pulls up a site—some public records thing. “Carver Holdings took this loan two years back, flipped it from another outfit. See the date?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Before Ryan even got it.”

“Exactly,” he says. “This started way back. Look—original debt’s tied to a Delgado. Not Ryan, though.”

My breath catches. “His dad,” I mutter. “He ran the bar before. Died five years ago.”

Benji’s eyes narrow. “So this is old mess. Someone dug it up, pumped it full of crap—fake signatures, crazy interest—and dropped it on Ryan.”

“Carver,” I say, voice hard. “He’s gotta be behind it.”

“Maybe,” Benji says, cautious. “He’s got the cash to pull it off. Bought the debt cheap, jacked it up, then leaned on your loan shark to collect. Smart—dirty, but smart.”

I sit back, head spinning. “So Ryan’s been set up? This whole time?”

“Looks like it,” he says, tapping the screen. “See these spikes? All after Carver’s name shows up. He’s bleeding you dry on purpose.”

I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. “Why? What’s he want?”

“The bar,” Benji says, flat. “He’s been after spots like The Static—gritty dives he can flip into fancy lounges. If Ryan can’t pay, Carver takes it.”

My stomach drops. “And Ryan’s out there meeting him, not telling me.”

Benji shrugs. “Could be. If Miles offered a deal, Ryan might’ve heard him out.”

I stand up, pace the small room. My boots thud on the thin carpet, loud in my head. Ryan—my Ryan—keeping this from me? After last night, after everything? I’m mad, yeah, but it’s more—hurt, deep and sharp. He’s fighting this alone, and I hate it.

“We need more,” I say, stopping. “This proves it’s shady, but it’s not enough.”

Benji nods. “I can dig deeper—bank stuff, Carver’s moves. Might take a day. You got the shark’s name?”

“Yeah,” I say, flipping pages. “Uh—Torres. That’s who calls.”

“Got it,” he says, typing again. “I’ll cross-check. If Carver’s tied to Torres, we’ve got him.”

“Do it,” I say, firm. “Fast.”

He grins, quick and sharp. “On it. But, man—if this is Miles, he doesn’t play fair. Watch your back.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I will.”

We wrap up—Benji keeps the papers, says he’ll scan the rest. I head out, sun just up, air cold and wet. My truck’s parked crooked, but I don’t care. I climb in, sit there, hands on the wheel. My head’s a mess—forged signatures, Ryan’s dad, Carver pulling strings. It’s real now, not just a hunch.

I should tell Ryan. Drive back, wake him up, lay it all out. He’s gotta know he’s been screwed, that Miles is the snake behind it. But I don’t start the engine. My phone’s in my hand, Benji’s warning ringing—he doesn’t play fair. What if I tell Ryan, and he shuts down more? Or worse—runs to Miles, takes some crap deal? I need proof, hard stuff he can’t dodge. Something to make him see.

I shove the phone in my pocket, lean back. Not yet. I’ll wait—let Benji dig, get the full picture. Ryan’s keeping secrets, but so am I now. Just for a little longer.