Chapter 20
Twenty
OLIVER
The GPS told me to turn right in three hundred feet, but I didn’t need it. I knew these streets by heart. Didn’t matter how many years passed, some places get burned into you, down to the marrow.
I slowed the rental car as I approached the familiar street. I hadn't planned to drive past my grandparents' house. It wasn't part of my carefully planned schedule for the day. But now that I was here, I couldn't resist the gravitational pull of the place that had once been my safe haven.
I expected changes. A new paint job, different landscaping, something. Anything.
What I saw instead stopped my breath.
The white Colonial wasn’t white anymore. The siding was gray with grime, the gutters sagged under the weight of rotting leaves, and the windows were boarded up like someone had given up even pretending to fix the broken glass.
And the porch, the one where my grandmother taught me to find constellations, was rotting under the weight of neglect.
I pulled over, unable to tear my eyes away from the wreckage.
This place had been my sanctuary. The only steady thing in a childhood full of expectations I could never meet. The one place I thought was mine.
And they’d let it rot.
Like they did to everything else that didn’t fit into their narrow worldview.
My fingers tightened around the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. The physical discomfort offered a welcome distraction from the hollow ache spreading through my chest.
I'd told myself this trip was about justice. About retrieving what rightfully belonged to us. About securing Emmet’s future.
But sitting here, staring at the abandoned shell of my past, I could no longer pretend this wasn't personal.
The timing felt cruelly appropriate. Facing one betrayal while investigating another.
With a last look at what remained of my grandparents' legacy, I drove away. I had a job to do.
Less than ten minutes later, I was standing in the county records office. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sickly glow over the worn laminate countertops and outdated computer terminals.
At least I knew Zahra was safe. The bridal shower was a women-only event, and even Ryan wouldn't dare crash that. The thought provided minimal comfort as I approached the clerk's desk.
"I need to access estate records," I said, my voice steadier than the slight tremor in my hands.
The clerk—a middle-aged woman with reading glasses dangling from a beaded chain—looked up. Recognition flickered across her features.
"Oliver Beck? Elaine and Harold's grandson?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
"I thought it was you! My goodness, how you've grown. I'm Nancy Whitman—I used to work with your grandmother at the hospital."
My throat tightened. I vaguely recalled a Nancy from childhood visits to see my grandmother at work.
"It's good to see you," I managed. "I'm trying to locate some information about my grandparents' estate."
Her smile faltered. "Oh. Of course." She lowered her voice. "We were all so sorry to hear about Harold. Coming so soon after Elaine... Well, it was just tragic. And your parents selling everything off like that?—"
"Everything?" The word escaped before I could stop it.
Nancy's eyebrows lifted. "The house. The land out by the lake. And it all went so fast. It was surprising, really..." She trailed off, eyes darting away uncomfortably.
Land by the lake?
"Well, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to take a look at the estate records," I said, careful to keep my tone neutral despite the alarm bells ringing in my head.
"Of course, dear. Follow me."
She led me to a quiet research room in the back, where she showed me how to access the digital archives and pulled several physical files from storage. I thanked her, waiting until she left before diving into the documents.
I expected to find documentation of transfers—my grandparents' house and perhaps a modest sum being funneled away from the intended beneficiaries. What I discovered instead was an entire web of deception that made my blood run cold.
My grandmother’s Will was simple. Everything to my grandfather, and if he passed, I was the secondary trustee. That’s what I’d been told.
But my grandfather’s Will…
The executor’s name hit me like a punch to the gut.
Not me. Thomas Davidson.
The church’s legal advisor. One of the most prominent members of my parents’ inner circle. The man who always smiled like he was blessing you while he slit your throat.
And the more I dug, the worse it got.
Properties I never knew about. A lake house. Ten acres of land on the outskirts of town. Investment accounts. Multiple savings accounts. The sheer volume of assets stunned me. My grandparents had been wealthy, far beyond their modest living.
Everything had been placed in trusts supposedly managed by Davidson as executor. Then, within months, it was all transferred to my parents.
I requested follow-up documents—property records, probate logs, court rulings. What I found made my stomach turn.
Falsified call logs spanning months, claiming I had refused calls and messages, had left official mail unanswered.
Documents portraying me as someone who had disconnected from the family long before my grandparents' deaths, showing zero interest in maintaining a relationship, even when there was financial incentive.
It was all designed to have the court rule that the estate be transferred to the next of kin—my parents.
Every document bore Davidson's signature.
My hands gripped the edge of the desk, white-knuckled. The words on the paper swam in front of my eyes, blurring with the weight of it.
They didn’t just steal from me.
They erased me.
Like I’d never been there at all.
Like I hadn’t called, hadn’t cared, hadn’t loved them enough to fight for them.
And part of me couldn't entirely deny the truth of it. I'd withdrawn after taking Emmet in, focused on protecting him, navigating my new role as his guardian. I'd left our grandfather vulnerable to the vultures at that church.
The final blow came when I found the timeline. The assets had been liquidated rapidly. The properties sold well below market value to Blessed Heritage LLC, whatever that was. The funds had disappeared into accounts I couldn't trace without a court order.
What hit hardest was the timestamp of the court ruling.
The same day Alyssa had finally given up on me, on us.
When my job at Foxy's became more than she could handle and she walked away.
The day she'd told me I was the best thing that had ever happened to her, but even that wasn’t enough to spend a lifetime as second choice.
All because we were struggling for money that should have been ours all along.
I gathered the documents with shaking hands, making copies of everything. My carefully maintained composure was fracturing, hairline cracks spreading outward from a central point of impact.
I needed to think. To plan. To calculate the most efficient path forward.
Instead, I found myself at a bar three blocks from the county office, the documents spread across the dark wood in front of me.
Sip.
The bourbon burned. It didn’t help.
Sip.
Nothing.
I was still shaking. Still furious. Still hollow.
Sip.
Still nothing.
The rational part of my brain knew alcohol was a depressant, that it would only amplify my darker emotions, that this was a statistically predictable response to shock and betrayal.
But the human part of me just wanted the pain to stop, the churning in my gut to ease, and the roaring in my ears to quiet.
I ordered another drink.
By the third bourbon, I'd begun sketching out a plan of action in my notepad. Legal options. Names of old contacts who might help. A timeline for pursuing justice.
By the fourth, the names blurred together, my handwriting deteriorating along with my focus.
Even drunk, I knew one thing with absolute clarity: Emmet could never know—not the magnitude of what had been stolen from us, not the depth of our parents' betrayal, and not how taking him under my wing played a pivotal role in my failure to secure the future he deserved.
My phone buzzed against the bar top. I squinted at the screen, struggling to bring it into focus.
Zahra .
My vision cleared instantly, adrenaline cutting through the alcohol haze. I looked at the time and realized with a jolt that she'd be back at the hotel by now. The bridal shower would be over.
I didn't think, I moved.
The barstool scraped against the floor as I lurched to my feet, my drink half-finished, the papers barely gathered in my hands before I was bolting for the door.
I came to Norman for this. For justice. For Emmet.
But all I could think about was her alone with Ryan.
And I had to choose: the brother I swore to protect, or the girl I once let down.
One of them would have to wait.
I flagged down a taxi, too drunk to drive, panic and protectiveness overriding every other priority.
The choice was easy.
I wasn’t about to let Ryan hurt Zahra.
Not again.
Not this time.
Not while I was breathing.