Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70584 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 353(@200wpm)___ 282(@250wpm)___ 235(@300wpm)
Uncle Rod says a lot of crazy shit sometimes—but he’s also one of the most in-the-know guys this city has seen. For the longest time, he was my father’s number one, his right-hand man. He did a lot of Dad’s bidding until things cooled off between them.
“Do you have proof of this?” I ask.
He scoffs. “You think I’m an idiot, August? I’ve got proof of everything. I’ve got so much fucking proof your father would shit his pants if he knew.”
Until I deal with my father, I’m going to have to keep Sheridan safe, which means keeping her as far away from me, this house, and my father as possible.
“I’m going to need to see those files,” I tell him. “Immediately.”
“Be my fucking guest.” He shoves the bar stool aside and ambles down the hallway toward my father’s study. A second later, he’s browsing his priceless collection of antique books until he plucks a random one off the shelf and cracks it open. A small silver key lands on the polished wood with a clink. “This key opens the top left drawer of his desk.”
“What is this?”
“It’s his blackmail drawer,” he says, as if it’s the kind of thing everyone has in their home office. “Every time he has someone do his dirty work he records it. And if he’s got any dirt on them, he keeps it in there. Like an insurance policy type thing. In case they try to double cross him, he knows exactly how to make their life a living hell.”
“How’s this going to prove that he killed Cynthia and Mom?”
“Because this town is full of people who know the truth,” he presses his finger into the top of my father’s mahogany desk top. “And they’re all in there.”
I swipe the key off the floor and pop the lock. Sure enough, the drawer is full of color-coded files labeled with vaguely familiar names, filled with papers and thumb drives and Polaroid images.
By the time I glance away from this shit show, my uncle is halfway to the door.
“Tell your father I’ll deal with him accordingly,” he says before disappearing down the hall. “You tell me the minute he’s back in town and not a second later, you understand?”
Pulling out my phone, I snap image after image of everything. And for the hours that follow, I read every last document, make duplicates of every last thumb drive, and pore over every photo filed away. At some point, I pass out head first on his desk. But then I pick up where I left off.
It’s seven AM before I climb out of this dark fucking rabbit hole of a mess my father has made. My eyes burn and my neck is kinked, but I’ve got a list of names and an idea of where to start.
All this time, I blamed Rich Rose for killing my mother and sister, for obliterating everything this family could’ve been—but it was my father the whole time.
He ruined us.
And now, I’m going to ruin him.
Chapter Forty-Two
August
* * *
“Rough night?” Sheridan meets me at the gate the next afternoon.
I rub my eyes, which are probably red as fuck. And I don’t remember the last time I ate or drank a glass of water for that matter. My hair could use a comb and my five o’clock shadow is coming in by the second.
I look like shit.
I feel like shit.
“Yeah, didn’t sleep much,” I shove my paper cut-covered hands into my pockets.
“It’s kind of cold out here …” She eyes the house behind me and rocks on her feet. “We going to head in or we going to just stand around and hope we don’t turn into human icicles?”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say. “Not tonight.”
“Oo .. kay?” Her brows lift. “You told me to come here today at three o’clock. Did I miss something?”
“There’s some stuff I have to deal with.” I’m so exhausted, I don’t know if the words coming out of my mouth make sense or if they’re gibberish. It’s like being drunk without touching a drop of liquor. “I really need to focus on this right now.”
“Focus on what, August? I’m confused …”
“Family stuff.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“I just think we need to cool off for a second,” I say. “Lay low.”
Her pretty mouth forms an ‘O’ and she takes a step back. “Yesterday you asked me to marry you, and today you’re saying we should cool off? What’s going on?”
I can’t tell her what I know. I can’t risk her running off to her parents and telling them before I have a chance to talk to any of the people in that drawer. I need to get to them first, assure them it’s safe for them to start talking, and put together a plan to get my father behind bars where he belongs.