Chapter 41
NATHAN
Following a successful win in court this afternoon I had Jenkins drop me at my apartment where I had the quickest shower on record, changed, then drove myself to the pharmacy to buy some flu medication and throat lozenges for Arianna.
Hell knows what she needs, but I bought one of everything. Anything to help her feel better.
I may have sworn one too many times when I was stuck in downtown traffic on my way here, frustrated by commuters making their way home early. I fucking hate rush-hour traffic.
Living out on the ranch sounds peaceful and I can see why Mom bought the place years ago. It was a smart move; it’s just such a shame she isn’t living her best life with Dad and is now beginning her golden years by herself.
Me and my brothers visited Dad yesterday and I got the shock of my life when I saw him for the first time in two weeks.
His decline in health was sudden, but once he was placed on the right medication to lessen his symptoms he plateaued for a while and I didn’t want to believe Mom when she said Dad hadn’t been great for the last couple of weeks, but she was right.
His mobility has lessened, he’s more fidgety, which is what the doctor called dystonia, and he struggled to talk or hold a conversation yesterday which upset Cole.
Dad’s deteriorating health has hit him the hardest, with him being the youngest, and he’s the one who made us all go for tests to determine if we had the same Parkinson’s disease and dementia gene.
Part of me was curious and another part of me was quite happy to stay in the dark.
Watching my father’s health worsening has been painful for everyone.
Luckily for all of us, no one inherited it and when we told Mom, she broke down, relieved to hear the positive news. Something there hasn’t been much of in the family as of late.
Much later than I planned, I finally pull up outside Arianna’s apartment, the powerful hum of my Bentley Continental cutting through the quiet night.
My heart pounds with anticipation—I haven’t seen her in days, and every second apart has felt like an eternity.
As I kill the engine, a grin tugs at my lips.
She has no idea how much I’ve missed her.
To surprise her, I use the spare key she keeps at my place to quietly let myself into her apartment, closing the door gently so I don’t wake her if she’s asleep.
The soft trickle of running water brings a smile to my face—it means she’s in the shower and maybe, just maybe, she’s starting to feel better.
I choose to let her be and head into the living room, settling in to wait for her.
Stacks of papers and folders, notes and files cover the coffee table and floor and I tut to myself, annoyed at her that she even brought work home with her.
I take a seat on the sofa and pick up a piece of paper with a printout of a case file number I don’t recognize. As my eyes move down the photographed label, I spot the attorney and read the name. “Daniel Hart.”
What the hell is she looking for?
I rack my brain for an answer, sifting through the dozens of photos and paperwork she’s printed off and read the date on the file, and calculate it’s a case from fourteen years ago.
A pile of papers fall off the table, scattering across the floor, and my breath hitches in my chest when I see a photograph of my father, me, and my brothers with red scribble notes underneath them that look like a list of questions.
Something isn’t adding up here.
This isn’t research for a case of mine. It’s something she’s working on herself.
I read the list of questions on the photograph of us, astonished by what I am reading.
Did the lawyer have ties to the defendant’s family?
Were key witnesses paid off or threatened?
Who handled the evidence, and could it have been tampered with?
Did the insurance company play a role in covering up the truth?
Were there any past complaints or investigations into Daniel Hart, or Hart Law as a whole?
Has Hart Law been involved in other suspicious cases?
Did Kevin Taylor pay Daniel Hart as bribery to set him free? Was there a deal struck?
Did the judge have a history of questionable rulings?
Who else could have benefited from the verdict?
Was the crash report fabricated? If so, how much were they paid? Who worked there at the time of the accident?
“What the fuck?” Bile rises in my gut and bubbles like a volcano as I flick through more photos and scribbled notes until I come across two almost identical-looking crash reports.
They contradict one another but I can tell one is a fake immediately from the non-government-issued paper, because the specific texture looks different and the watermark is in the wrong place.
“Three fatalities. Mr. Robert Donovan, Mrs. Emily Donovan, and Ms. Riley Donovan.” I read their names out loud.
This is evidence from the crash that killed her family.
Which means my father defended the man she said killed them.
Has this been her plan all along? To expose my father for bribery and foul play?
My father is the most straight and honest person I know and would never do such a thing.
My jaw tightens and I let out a slow controlled exhale to contain the storm building within me when I read the email that stabs me through the heart.
I scan the lines of it, my focus now razor-sharp, and lock on to each word of the conversation between two betrayers.
It’s from Julie fucking Hanson informing Arianna that she found the evidence she had been looking for and that the crash report from her family’s car accident was tampered with, and how she thinks my father paid the investigator to change it.
“Motherfucker,” I grit out between my teeth, and every happy feeling I’ve felt since I met Arianna disappears like a ghost on the wind.
As I pull my phone out of the pocket of my jeans, my blood races through my veins, but I remain as calm as a monk in meditation while I photograph everything in front of me.
From Arianna’s theories to the coroners’ reports and lists of journalist names and numbers who work at various tabloids, along with case files she must have acquired from our archive.
Arianna doesn’t have a sore throat or a virus; she’s got backstabber syndrome and has been planning my demise for months behind my back with her core mission to ruin my family and everything we took years to build.
No way am I letting that happen.
Her betrayal won’t touch my father’s respected name.
Overwhelming disappointment takes hold.
I’ve been sipping sweet poison straight from the source and I’ve been sleeping in my bed with a snake.
I’m disappointed in myself for believing that I could trust her and that she was the one.
For being too blind to see what was in front of me all along: a traitor.
She used me. Tricked me with her killer curves and tempting lips.
Everything was a lie.
She played me. Which means she never deserved me in the first place.
I take one hard look around and stand to my full height and stretch myself out before leaving as if I was never here.
Closing the front door as quietly as I can to remain undetected, I walk with purpose, not pain, toward my car and jump in.
My expression is neutral and stoic. I don’t feel rage or sadness.
Heartbreak? Nah, not that either. This is my awakening because her disloyalty only proves that she wasn’t made for me.
She lost me. I didn’t lose her.