Chapter 16
ARI
“Vivienne Cavendish,” I mutter under my breath, feeling completely ruffled as I storm out of the elevator.
I already can’t stand Vivienne, and I’ve never even met her. Unlucky for me, tomorrow I will, because I’m sitting in on her initial consultation with Nathan.
Having read the articles online about her marriage to one of the richest men in television, I discovered how her deceased husband’s children cut her out of his will when they first got married, ensuring she didn’t receive a penny of his inheritance.
Now Vivienne is on her very own one-woman warpath against the airline who she claims failed to follow the allergy protocol, and she publicly made a statement informing everyone that as soon as she’s done there, she will be suing her deceased husband’s children to ensure she gets everything that is owed to her.
What does she deserve exactly? He built his empire long before she entered the picture, and she was only married to the eighty-two-year-old for twelve months.
At forty-two years his junior, she must have thought she’d won the lotto when she met Henry Cavendish, who she claims “swept her off her feet.”
Whatever. I’ll meet the undeniably beautiful woman who hides her “greed,” Henry’s son’s words, not mine, tomorrow. After all, gold diggers sometimes come wrapped in a pretty package.
I shake off my distaste and paint on a smile, which isn’t hard to do as I really like the new girl. “Hey, Leesa.” I clutch the files to my chest and give our new records assistant, the one who filled the role I was originally hired for, a broad smile.
“Oh, I was just leaving.” Leesa looks around the empty basement, her coat already on.
I wave my hand through the air. “That’s not a problem. You head out, I’ll file these.”
I befriended Leesa the day she started, and I know she trusts me because I’ve done this exact same thing once a week for the last month, pretending to file at the last minute just to test the water.
“Are you sure you don’t mind doing it again?” She tilts her head to the side in question. “It’s just I have to get Talia to dance class tonight by six or you know I would stay.”
I knew that. On Wednesdays we only have one records clerk and Leesa leaves early to take her daughter to lessons. “I promise, no problem, you go.”
She places her hand on her heart. “Thank you.”
Leesa turns around and lays her hand against the security panel to open the gigantic records room behind the secure door. “You know the drill,” she says, jamming the thick metal fire door open for me with a rubber stopper.
“Get in, file, leave, shut the door and double-check the red light on the panel to ensure it’s locked. Got it.” I give her a mock salute, confirming the process.
Leesa checks the time on the wall clock then lifts her purse off her desk. “I gotta go.”
“See you tomorrow.” I wave goodbye.
“Don’t work too late,” she replies cheerily, running to the elevator that will take her up one floor to the main exit.
“I won’t.” I turn on the balls of my feet and enter one of the largest record rooms I’ve ever been in. It has zero windows, and it’s fireproofed within an inch of its life; the Hart family take people’s personal details very seriously.
On a mission and with intention tonight, I stride along the alphabetized aisles, making my way to the one marked T. For Kevin Taylor. The man who killed my parents and my sister.
Being this close to the information I’ve waited to get my hands on since I was a teenager, my heart is racing with anticipation.
My heels ricochet off the concrete flooring, every clatter echoing louder than the next, as if mirroring every beat of my thumping heart.
Clutching the files I brought along, pretending I needed them as an excuse, I tighten my grip and finally approach the aisle I’d been eyeing.
Unlike previous weeks, when I could only stand and stare from a distance, tonight I felt brave enough to take the next step and search for what I’ve been seeking.
Inhaling a deep breath, I summon all the courage I can and take my first step into the narrow space that’s lined with hundreds of gray rectangular boxes, each with a white label on the end and black writing outlining each case name, number, and date.
Walking slowly, looking left and right, I sound out the letters of the alphabet under my breath as I pass by the archive boxes.
“Tab, Tac, Tad, Tae.” I continue past the Tak’s and Tam’s, all the way down, and that’s when I find what I’m looking for: Tay.
I take another couple of steps and find a gray box labelled “Kevin Taylor.”
I read the words in front of me, then I reread the label, double-checking it’s the correct file.
Case Name: The State v. Kevin Taylor
Case Number: 10CR07354
Contents: Pleadings, discovery, depositions, correspondence, exhibits
Date Range: June 2010–Feb 2011
File Reference: File #8416 Taylor
Attorney: Daniel Hart
Confidential: Attorney-Client Privileged
“That’s the one.” I talk to myself, confirming it is.
To free up my hands, I lay the files I’ve been holding on the floor.
Adrenaline courses through my body, making everything feel more intense, stress and excitement blending together under the weight of the risk I’m taking.
I reach up and slide the box out of the space it’s probably not moved from in over a decade and clumsily pull it down off the shelf, catching the heavy box in my arms with a humph .
This is the moment I’ve been planning for years and yet I feel so unprepared.
My awareness on high alert, I dart my eyes around the space to check I’m alone, even though I know I am. I hug the box close to my chest and walk toward a table at the end of the aisle.
Quickening my pace, every step closer to uncovering the truth, I cradle the box full of information in my arms as if it’s precious gold, which it is to me.
Hands shaking, I place the box gently down on the table when I reach it and curse at myself when I can’t make my trembling fingers work to open the closure tab.
I lay my hands out in front of me before drawing in a deep breath through my nostrils and then out through my mouth to steady me.
“You’ve got this, Ari,” I whisper to steady myself.
I flip the corrugated cardboard lid open and push it back to reveal the paperwork documenting the car crash that killed my family and the man who ran off and left us all to die.
The memories I have from that night flash through my brain like a picture flip book, the images animated and slightly hazy in places, recreating what it remembers from that night.
Which isn’t as clear as it used to be. It’s as if my brain has blocked out the finer details of that night but I remember the impact of the crash, the ambulance, the ride to the hospital, the fire department, and the police interviews.
The skin on my scar tugs and tingles in response as if recalling what happened that night too.
Pulling the files within the box out, one after the other, I memorize the order they came out in and go directly to the file marked “Evidence,” which I have seen numerous times before because the case is available to the public.
But I’m not looking for what I already know, I’m looking for the information I suspect Nathan’s father Daniel hid to protect his client.
I’m convinced Kevin Taylor was under the influence of drugs or alcohol the evening he killed my lovely mom, dad, and sister, and I don’t think the witness that was called to testify was telling the truth.
There is no way there was an oil spill earlier that day, or that the foggy weather conditions made it difficult to see.
My father didn’t miss the warning signs that night. It wasn’t his fault.
There just has to be more to it.
I search the names of the detectives and criminal investigators, mentally taking note that it doesn’t correlate with what Julie said. Everyone involved was called forward to testify, so what was she talking about when she said not everyone did?
Something doesn’t add up.
Twenty minutes pass by, and frustrated, I plonk myself down on one of the chairs around the table and run my hands through my hair, staring at a piece of paperwork before me which has been redacted.
Now that is new to me, but I can’t see what’s written on it. Even when I hold it up to the light, the black lines don’t give anything away.
A feeling I know all too well creeps in, disappointment overwhelming me, and I think I could cry at how devastated I am that I didn’t find anything.
I was convinced there would be something to pin falsifying information, concealing evidence, witness tampering, or anything that would uncover the truth that Nathan’s father was corrupt.
Maybe that’s what’s hidden within the redacted letter between Nathan’s father and Kevin Taylor, but surely not.
This letter looks different and is personally handwritten.
Like a letter between friends almost.
As I look at the files, everything I seem to do only makes me hit a dead end.
Assuming that any shady dealings would be in this file was naive of me.
I feel like such an idiot.
Every piece of information is documented clearly and concisely, as the law dictates, making the records I have read several times before perfect.
Which is just like every other file held within this room. Nathan and his brothers follow the law to the letter, something I didn’t think their father did.
I can’t be wrong about that; I just can’t be.
But maybe I am.
Maybe I’m wrong about it all.
In case I’ve missed anything, I slide my phone out of the pocket of my dress pants and photograph the information to study again later, specifically the censored letter.
I hope it’s the key to uncovering the truth.
It’s not as simple as I thought it would be and I’ll keep coming back here until I find what I’m looking for.
Just as I am photographing the last document, a voice from behind me asks, “What are you doing?”