Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 124451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124451 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
“Think, think, think, think,” I murmur, glancing around his office for some kind of clue when I see a framed photograph of his first wedding to Jensen’s mom, the one that actually mattered. A grin stretches across my face. “Gotcha, motherfucker.”
Now, the only issue is figuring out when the hell they got married. Though, I’m sure it’s nothing Google can’t handle.
Three minutes later, I’m in.
I start digging through files and programs, not having a damn clue what I’m actually looking for, but there’s bound to be something. The only issue is, this is a go-hard-or-go-home situation. If I find only one document proving he’s a dirty lawyer, he’ll find a way to get out of it. What I need is substantial evidence, something the police cannot ignore, even the dirty ones who’ve been paid off. I need an open and shut case.
Fifteen minutes quickly turns into two hours when I finally come across a locked folder titled Vacation. Call me crazy, but the only people who need to lock their vacation pics are the ones who are going on those vacations with someone other than their wives.
When I click on the folder, another password pops up, and I let out a heavy sigh as my fingers dance carefully across the keys. Access Denied. Of course, it wouldn’t be his wedding date again; that would be too easy. It tells me I’ve only got two more tries before permanently locking me out.
“Fuck,” I mutter, before pulling out my phone. I scroll down my contacts until I find Logan’s name and hit call.
It rings three times before he answers. “Bri?” he questions, a strange tone in his voice. “You good? You never call me.”
“Yeah,” I say, hearing Jax in the background with a bell. I mean, damn. Who the hell gave that idiot a bell? “I, um … shit. This is going to sound bad, but you’re good with computers right?”
“Yeahhhhh,” he says slowly.
“Say I found a locked folder and didn’t know the password. How would I break into that?”
There’s a pause as he considers his response. “You’re not fucking around on Tanner’s computer are you? Because you’re cool and all, but I’m not about to help you go searching for dirt on my cousin.”
“Why? What’s on Tanner’s computer that I need to know about?”
I can picture the look on his face as he stumbles to find the right words. “Oh, um, nothing. I just … you know, in case you might have been snooping around and found something you shouldn’t.”
I scoff. “As if I’d do that to him,” I tell him. “Besides, I’m not interested in seeing the dick pics you’ve sent him over the years. This is something else, but I swear, I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”
“Shit, okay,” he finally says. “What kind of computer is it?”
Logan rattles off instructions and it takes me far too long to understand what the hell he’s trying to say, but the minute I’m in, my heart starts to race. “Hoooooooly shit,” I breathe, hitting the jackpot. “I’m in,” I tell Logan. “I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for your help.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, ending the call and leaving me to my pot of gold. I search through the files, each one more horrendous than the last, but as I come across a sub folder labeled MORGAN, my stomach begins to cramp. Images upon images of that night fill the screen, and my heart shatters. I came here hoping to find this, but I didn’t consider how it would feel to actually see the horror of what happened inside that house.
Not wanting to see anything more, I select all of them and hit delete before moving across to the trash can and permanently deleting them all from the system, making it impossible for Orlando to recover the files. I remove the sub folder as though it was never there and just as I wipe the tears off my face, another sub folder catches my attention.
ASHFORD
Sucking in a gasp, my brows furrow and I open the folder. My hand covers my mouth and my chest starts to ache, finding the screen filled with videos and still photos of my mother working as a prostitute. I flick through the pictures, the tears streaming down my face. She would have only been fifteen or sixteen in these images, much younger than I am now. Her skin is pale and her cheeks hollow. She has dark bags under her eyes and her hair looks as though it hadn’t been washed in weeks. Not to mention the bruising and needle marks inside her elbow.
I can’t bear to look at it another second and drop the whole folder into the trash can, permanently deleting the files just as I’d done with the evidence against Tanner. I make a vow to myself never to bring this up, never to burden my mother by letting her know what I saw here. I don’t want to destroy her.