Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
He butts his shoulder on the doorjamb when I march to his desk and throw open the drawers. His laid-back response exposes I’m searching in the wrong area, but my anger is too perverse to see sense. That songbook is the only tangible thing I have left from Colette. The rest are memories.
Memories I wish weren’t so strong when I pull a copy of Laken’s record from Knox’s soft leather briefcase in the bottom drawer of his desk. It isn’t solely the sheet of paper Knox handed me three nights ago. It includes details of Laken’s plea and his handwritten confession.
It even includes photographs of the crash scene.
Even though I shouldn’t look, it is the equivalent of a train wreck.
I can’t tear my eyes away.
The damage is mainly confined to the passenger side of the car. The driver’s side took hardly any of the impact. The fender has a deep scrape, and the side mirror has been knocked off, but the damage is so minute that the fancy silver jaguar on the middle of the hood looks as new as the day it was driven off the showroom floor.
Jaguar? How could Laken afford to drive a Jaguar? His watch is an antique, but he has no clue of its worth.
“What the fuck are you seeing?” Knox asks when he spots my expression. He pushes off the doorframe and enters deeper into his office. “There’s nothing in there but his confession.” He drags his hand under his nose, a telltale sign he’s struggling to keep a rational head. He did it multiple times during a lengthy recording session previously. “They checked. They said they scoured every inch of it. It should only tell you what you already know.” His eyes adopt a wild, fierce look. “Laken killed your sister. He murdered her because he’d rather waste years behind bars than raise the kid she was trying to pin on him.”
He hasn’t just undone his entire campaign that he was clueless about my sister’s accident until his PI dug up information on Laken. He’s wholly obliterated it.
No one knew Colette was pregnant. It was kept hidden because it didn’t benefit her case. The DA said it could have hindered it, so with my family’s reputation in our local church on the line and my father’s realization nothing would bring his daughter back, he agreed that sealing the records of the case was best for all involved.
The only people who know Colette was pregnant are her direct family… and the man she went to tell the night she died.
Between sobs, she told Petra that her meetup with the baby’s father hadn’t gone to plan and that he suggested she get an abortion.
She told Petra she couldn’t do that, that she’d raise her baby with or without the father’s help.
The crash occurred not long after that.
“Oh my god. It wasn’t an accident.”
It dawns on me that I said my statement out loud when Knox replies to it. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Laken killed her. He veered his car off the road when she refused to get an abortion.”
“But why would he do that? He’s taken care of his brother since he was a child. That proves he isn’t the type to bounce on his obligations. He isn’t you.” I intake a sharp breath when my final sentence rings through my head on repeat. He isn’t you.
As theories flood my head, I flick through the arrest document like a madman, my hunt undeterred by Knox attempting to rip it from my hands.
I find what I’m seeking a short time later. The registration papers for the Jaguar.
“You were the registered owner.” I stumble back when shocking truth after shocking truth pummels into me. “That’s what he meant when he said he defrauded the government. He lied… for you.”
“It wasn’t for me,” Knox denies, his tone not as harsh as anticipated. My heart squeezes with guilt when he admits, “It was for River.” His laugh is off. “My father only had to make out he’d held back Child Services a handful of times, and Laken was willing to do anything to ensure he continued to have his support until he turned eighteen. He wasn’t eager to sign up for time behind bars, though. It took a lot of weaselly tactics to get him over the line, but we eventually got there. Probably helped that he thought he’d only get six months.” I hate the pride in his eyes when he locks them with mine and says, “It’s a shame your sister wasn’t as put off by the church’s possible shame as your parents. Petra told the DA that Colette was pregnant. Her recent miscarriage saw her throwing the book at Laken.”
My reply is stern enough to break through his husky chuckles. “You son of a bitch. You won’t get away with this.”