Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
NOT SO INNOCENT
Jett
Patrick,
I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for months. Your office won’t put my calls through. I’ve even come to Stonebridge, but your security is so tight, they removed me from the property and told me I’d be arrested if I came back.
I’m not a stalker.
I’m the woman carrying your child.
I understand what we had was casual. I was fine with that. I assured you I was...
Until now.
Patrick, I don’t want anything from you, but you deserve to know that you’re having a child.
That’s all I’m trying to do, but no one will let me talk to you.
I can’t get past Allen Foster. He finally cut me off after calling me a “gold-digging whore.” He told me you want nothing to do with me, but I don’t believe him.
I know you well enough, I know you’d want to know your child.
I’m skipping the return address so this might get through. If this doesn’t work, I’m not sure what to do.
We’re having a boy, Patrick. Your son will be born any day, and he deserves to know you.
Please, for his sake, answer me.
I loved our time together, but if you don’t want me, I’m fine with that. But, please, for our son, call me. If this doesn’t get to you, I give up.
I’m going to name him Jett. It’s strong and powerful and even a bit mysterious ... just like you.
For his sake, I pray you read this.
All my love,
Parker
Ifold up the letter and slide it back in the worn envelope. It had been ripped open, taped up, and returned to sender.
I never dug into my past until I got the diagnosis.
But when I found this letter, and more just like it, it was easy.
It was packed away in my mother’s things.
My grandma, God rest her soul, gave up everything to raise me.
But the fact she had this letter and every other one that was returned to sender is telling.
Stonebridge.
Patrick Madison.
Allen Foster.
I didn’t need to spit into any stupid vial and send my DNA to a mass database. All it took was a simple internet search to put those three clues together. When I went into a deep dive of Patrick Madison and found pictures of him from decades earlier, I knew.
It was like looking into a damn mirror.
I never hated a mirror before that day.
But I had no choice. I had to get a hold of him. That went on for months. I never knew my mother, but I felt the same type of frustration she did with getting past Foster. That brings me to where I am today.
I’m the secret baby Allen didn’t want anyone to know about. Allen cut my mom off before I was born and tried to do the same to me. He was the mastermind who tried to get rid of Harlow so he could take over Stonebridge.
I’m not a secret anymore, and I’m sitting with a big, fat trust fund. I’ve had it a week and still have no fucking idea what to do with it. My father handed it to me and skipped town so fast, I’m not sure he has any clue what to do with me either.
Most people would be offended by the cold shoulder, but not me. I’m glad there’s an entire continent between us. It makes the awkward-as-fuck relationship easier to swallow when I don’t have to run into him on the grounds of the manor.
The days here are long since I have nothing to do until I go back to work, even though work for me is sitting my ass in front of a computer screen. I’m a government contractor who manages other contractors on projects that are so fucking boring, I want to pull my hair out on a daily basis.
Not that I haven’t been bored—though not to death, I’ll never say that again—since the surgery, but I’m at least able to get outside.
I even hiked a couple of times. I feel like I’m on a constant vacation with Harlow and Devon, even though she has other things to focus on.
She’s refurbishing her grandmother’s home and planning a wedding.
I eat dinner with her and Devon most nights. Getting to know her has not been awkward at all. She’s been so worried about me, she acts like I’m the only one who had surgery. She’s the one who gave up a kidney.
I’ve got too much time to think. I’ve read that letter my mother sent Patrick more times than I can count since I found it. And as awkward as the time is with my birth father when we’re together, I know he didn’t ghost me, and Allen Foster kept my mother from him.
And in turn, me.
Maybe it’s because I’m bored out of my mind, but I can’t let it go. Foster was Patrick’s right-hand man until a few months ago when they learned that there’s nothing right about him. He’s a cheater, a liar, an extortionist, and a crook.
He’s also in jail for all those things and more.
I can only assume he’s a murderer, even though there’s no way to prove it now.
Everyone always told me my mother’s death was an accident. But looking at it now, it was too perfect to be an accident.
And who would’ve questioned it back then? My grandma? No way. She was too heartbroken and too overwhelmed that she had a newborn baby to take care of. My mother had no one else to advocate for her. The authorities were probably all too happy to close the case.
It was done.
Parker Cross died in an elevator on her way to a job interview.
In a fucking elevator that had just been inspected months earlier. It was an old building, but cords do not just snap on elevators. That shit only happens in old movies or cartoons.
But it happened to my mom.
No extra cables. No brakes. No air pressure to act as a buffer.
And, yes, I know all there is to know about elevators. I have since I was a teenager, right after my grandmother told me how her daughter died. She had to let that go, and I did too eventually. But now that I know Foster was the one who kept my mother from Patrick, I can only assume it was him.
It’s the closest I’ll get to closure on that. The fucker will never admit to anything.
I stand and go to the window that overlooks the mountains and lake from the main tower in the manor. I have not had this kind of time on my hands for ... maybe ever, now that I think about it. And reading letters from decades past is proof I need a distraction.
I have a healthy body and trust fund—the first I never thought I’d have and the second I never dreamed of. Someone in my position should be ecstatic, make plans, and live their best life.
I’m doing none of those things.
I turn to the desk, lock the letter in the safe, and grab my keys. I need a change of scenery. I have no idea where I’m going, but I need to get out of this room and away from my damn thoughts.
I usually don’t think twice about elevators, but my life seems to be fucking with my head at the moment.
Instead of pressing the button, I bypass waiting guests and head for the stairs.
All of a sudden, I have so much pent-up energy, I feel like I could run a marathon.
I’m down four flights before I know it and stalk through the atrium to the front doors.
I’m almost to my truck when something catches my eye.
Lennon Shaw.
I’ve seen her a few times since the false alarm debacle, mostly in passing. She apologized again. I finally told her she’s not going to get fired on my account.
She eyes me the same moment I see her. She gives me a wave before she climbs out of a beater of a car juggling a bag and travel mug in her signature spiked heels.
I change my trajectory and move to her, but my eyes go to her car.
I’m not one to judge. Hell my truck isn’t new.
But her sedan is not from the last decade, and I question if it was from the two before that.
The plates are from Alabama, the bumper is rusted, it has only one windshield wiper, and her tires are bald.
Zero fucking tread.
“Hey, Jett. How are you?”
I turn my attention from the hazard on wheels to her. “I can’t complain. You?”
She shrugs her bag up her shoulder. Her cheeks are pink from the cool morning air, and her lips are as full as ever as she smiles up at me.
“I’m late. I had an appointment to look at an apartment in town.
There’s not much to choose from, but I’m trying to be proactive. You know, positive thinking and all.”
I lift my chin toward her car. “Your tires are bald.”
She doesn’t even glance back. “They’re fine. Or they’ll have to be. They’re not a priority. I only drive to and from the library anyway.”
I motion to our surroundings. “I’m not the kind of asshole who mansplains shit to a woman, but you do know it’s going to snow eventually, right? Sooner rather than later.”
She exhales. “I can only handle one thing at a time, and my priority is finding a place to live with an actual kitchen. Right now, I’m using the backroom refrigerator and microwave. It would be nice to have a stove.”
“A stove,” I echo. “I can see the struggle between cooking and driving on ice.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
How are you feeling? I’ve seen you out walking—not that I’m spying on you.
” She pulls her lip between her teeth. “That would be weird. I just meant that you’re out on the grounds a lot.
You’re hard to miss just because you’re so tall.
And your hair. Not many people have hair like you. I’m sorry. Now I’ve made it weird.”
I bite back a smirk. “I’ve never had a stalker. I’m experiencing all kinds of new things in Winslet.”
“I’m not stalking, I swear,” she whispers.
“First you try to tackle me to the ground. Now you’re stalking me. Do me a favor and tell me I’m the only one. If you’ve got a long list of guys you’re stalking, I might be jealous.”
“I’m not stalking anyone, Jett,” she presses. “Mr. Donnelly knew I was going to be a little late, but I’m later than I planned. I need to get going. Maybe I’ll see you around?”
“I don’t know,” I drawl. “You tell me. You’re the stalker.”
She pulls in a deep breath, and it seems like she’s trying not to roll her eyes. “I don’t even know how to say goodbye now. You’ve made things officially weird.”
“At least weird is interesting, right?”