Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
OLIVER
The porch swing creaked beneath me as I rocked back and forth, the rhythmic motion doing nothing to soothe the rage coiled tight in my chest.
I'd been waiting outside Davidson's house for nearly an hour, watching the sun sink below the horizon, bathing the modest craftsman in golden light that felt too peaceful for the storm raging inside me.
I hadn't planned this visit. After walking out on Zahra, I'd driven aimlessly through Norman's streets, my subconscious eventually guiding me to this quiet neighborhood where Thomas Davidson—church attorney, executor of my grandfather’s estate, architect of my family's betrayal—had lived for as long as I could remember.
My mother's warning echoed in my head: "If you even think of approaching Davidson or contesting the court ruling, all your sacrifices will be for nothing."
Let them try.
I had nothing left to lose.
A car turned onto the street, headlights sweeping across the darkening lawn. I straightened as it pulled into Davidson's driveway, my hands curling into fists, preparing for confrontation.
The man who emerged from the vehicle was not the Davidson I remembered. Gone was the ramrod-straight posture, the confident stride. This Davidson moved carefully, leaning heavily on a cane I didn't recall him needing before. His shoulders were stooped, his once-dark hair now completely gray.
He didn't seem surprised to find me on his porch. His expression was resigned, almost relieved, as if he'd been expecting this visit for years.
"Oliver Beck," he said, his voice raspier than I remembered. "I wondered when you'd finally show up."
I stood, towering over the diminished man who had once loomed so large.
"We need to talk," I said, the words tasting bitter on my tongue.
Davidson nodded, unlocking his front door.
The calm routine of hanging his coat, placing his keys in the ceramic dish by the door, gesturing toward the kitchen—it was so at odds with the confrontation I'd planned that I found myself complying, following him inside like a docile visitor rather than an accuser.
"Tea?" he asked, moving toward the kettle.
"I didn't come here for tea."
"Earl Grey," he continued as if I hadn't spoken. "And I have those shortbread biscuits you always liked."
The casual reference to a childhood preference I'd forgotten threw me off balance. I tried holding on to the rage, but it was impossible in the face of Davidson’s ridiculous composure.
So, instead of the heated exchange I’d played through my mind while waiting on the porch, I found myself standing awkwardly in the kitchen as Davidson prepared two mugs, the domesticity of the scene making my planned aggression feel misplaced.
"Sit," he said once the kettle had whistled, indicating a chair at the small kitchen table.
I sat, partly due to curiosity, but mostly because what else was I supposed to do?
The mug of tea placed before me steamed gently, the familiar scent triggering memories of Sunday school, of sitting in Davidson's office while my parents discussed church matters, of being given biscuits and being told to wait quietly like a good boy.
Davidson eased himself into the chair opposite mine, settling his cane against the table’s edge, arranging his mug and a small plate of biscuits with methodical precision.
"Proceed," he said simply once he was settled, his eyes meeting mine over the rim of his mug.
And somehow, inexplicably, the words poured out.
The records I'd discovered, my parents' betrayal, the stolen properties, Emmet's struggles, and the sacrifices I'd made to keep him afloat.
My voice grew hoarser as I spoke of working at Foxy's just to scrape by, of losing Alyssa, and of the mounting debt despite my academic success.
And then, without meaning to, I was talking about Zahra. About seeing her again after all these years, about the fake relationship that had become something real, about the way she'd pushed me away just hours ago, history repeating itself in the cruelest way imaginable.
"And now she's going to be at that wedding alone," I said, the reality of the situation hitting me even as the words left my mouth. "With Ryan. With all of them." I stood abruptly, chair legs scraping against the linoleum. "I'm sorry, this was a mistake. I need to?—"
"Sit down." The words were a command, but had an edge of pleading to them that made me hesitate. "There's no mistake. You need to hear the truth."
Something in his tone—regret, perhaps, or desperation—made me sink back into my chair.
Davidson sighed, setting down his mug with a soft clunk against the table. "I've been waiting for this conversation for a long time, Oliver. Praying for it, even."
I snorted. "Praying. Right."
"Mock if you must, but even sinners pray." He folded his hands before him, finger pads brushing over wrinkled knuckles. "What do you already know?"
"I know you falsified records to steal my grandparents' estate."
Davidson didn't flinch at the accusation. If anything, he seemed relieved by the directness.
"I did falsify those records." The simple admission stunned me into silence, every last bit of fight leaving me.
"I created documents showing you'd refused contact, and that you'd abandoned your role as executor. I instructed my assistant to screen your calls, to return your mail marked undeliverable.”
“And Blessed Heritage LLC?” I asked. “Is it a church owned holding company?”
“Yes,” Davidson whispered. “Your mother framed the sales as ‘honoring her parents’ legacy’ by designating the real estate assets for community purposes. I facilitated the transfer into the holding company, your father oversaw the financial aspect, and Maryam Ansari signed off on the deal."
The calm recitation of his crimes ignited my rage anew. "Why? Was the money that good? Did they pay you enough to sell your soul?"
A flicker of pain crossed his weathered face. "It wasn't about money. It was about legacy, about faith."
"What the hell does faith have to do with theft?"
"Your parents kept talking about God's will." Davidson's gaze dropped to his tea, shame evident in the slump of his shoulders. "Your brother, and your rejection of the church's teachings. They said your grandparents would have wanted their life’s work to serve God, not fund sin."
"So, stealing is fine as long as it’s to serve God?" My voice shook with fury. "That's some convenient theology."
"I was wrong," he said simply. "Catastrophically, unforgivably wrong."
The admission should have been satisfying. Instead, it left me hollow.
"Do you know what it cost me?" I asked, my voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "What it cost Emmet?"
Davidson nodded, his expression grave. "More than I understood at the time.
My wife left me after my stroke, and my children rarely speak to me unless they need something.
" He gestured to the empty house around us.
"I spent six weeks in the hospital. The only visitors I had were the pastor and Maryam, who came to assess if I needed to be replaced. "
"I'm supposed to feel sorry for you?"
"No. You're supposed to understand that I had a lot of time to think in that hospital room," Davidson said quietly. "About how I facilitated the destruction of too many lives."
Suddenly, my mother's threats about approaching Davidson made sense. They weren't afraid of what I might discover; they were afraid of what Davidson might confess.
“Why haven’t you come forward then?” I challenged. “You speak so highly of yourself, of your epiphanies, but you’ve done nothing to make things right.”
“You’re right.” Again, no pushback, no excuses. Just acceptance of his role. “I should have spoken up sooner, used my voice.”
“Why now?”
“Because your mere presence in Norman puts you in danger, and I can’t stand by and let them destroy you a second time.”
I pondered his words, torn between accepting them to calling him out, proving he was still working with my parents, that this was another power move to manipulate me.
It was exhausting.
"I'll testify about the records I falsified," Davidson offered. "About how your parents orchestrated everything. It won't undo the damage, but it might help you reclaim what's rightfully yours."
“I don't know," I said, shaking my head. "I don't know if I can do this anymore."
"There's something else you should take into consideration." Davidson's expression darkened. "The LLC isn’t fully owned by the church. The church is actually the minority shareholder.”
I frowned. "How did the church officials agree to that?"
Davidson let out a bitter laugh. “Oliver, we are the church officials.”
“So, you stole from me and from the church?” I snorted, unable to muster up any other reaction. “Some fucking holy mission, Davidson.”
"Greed never finds its fill, Oliver." Davidson watched me carefully. "And your parents have strong allies in the church helping them."
"For a cut, I presume." I started to roll my eyes, but then a realization struck. "Ryan's in charge of the church legal department now."
Davidson sipped his tea without answering, his silence confirmation enough.
"And Zahra's aunt, she's been in on it since day one."
"She’s one of your mother’s closest allies," Davidson confirmed. “Both are on the board with strong leadership positions.”
The implication hit me like a physical blow. This wasn't a coincidence; this was a coordinated attack. From the moment Zahra and I stepped off the plane in Norman, we were being watched, played, manipulated.
Ambushed.
Suddenly, Zahra's behavior made sense—her professional distance, her insistence on ending things. She was protecting me, just as I had been trying to protect her. But my gut told me there was more to it. The way she looked at me, like she wasn’t sure she really knew me…
My gut twisted with the sudden urge to run to her, to show her I was the man she saw when we made love this afternoon, to fix things before it was too late.
"They would have shown her something," I said, thinking aloud. "Something to convince her I was using her.”
"Your mother is thorough. Always has been."
I leaned back in my chair, mind racing. My parents threatening my career, Ryan threatening Zahra, everyone manipulating everyone else...
"They'll know I was here," I groaned, head dropping back and hand running over my face. "And they'll punish me even if I promise not to go after the estate. They'll ruin everyone I care about."
"Yes," Davidson agreed, setting down his mug with finality. "Or..."
Something in his tone made me look up sharply. The defeated old man was gone, replaced by a spark of the shrewd attorney I remembered from my youth.
"Or?" I echoed.
Davidson's eyes twinkled with a light I hadn't seen since entering his home. "I have a way we can get it all back."
"All of it?" I was beyond skeptical.
"You want your inheritance restored. You want your brother's future secured." He ticked off points on his fingers. "You want Zahra to be safe from Ryan. And, unless I'm mistaken, you want her back."
My throat tightened at the direct assessment. "And what do you want?"
"Redemption." The word hung in the air between us. "A chance to make right what I helped make wrong."
"How?"
Davidson reached into a drawer beside him, pulling out a notary stamp and a legal pad. "I have insurance."
"Insurance?"
"Irrefutable proof of misconduct, undue influence on a vulnerable elderly, and the entire plan to strip you and your brother of your rights."
"Why did you keep information that implicates you?"
“Because I don’t trust anyone but myself, Oliver.” Davidson frowned, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And in a way, it should have been. I’d been living my life with the same base assumption.
My mind raced, the silence of Davidson’s empty household suddenly too loud, ringing in my ears like a warning bell.
The inheritance, the properties, the money—it all felt hollow now compared to what I might lose. To who I might lose.
"They'll fight back. They'll say you're delusional—that the stroke affected your mind."
"They'll try." He nodded. "But I've prepared for that. My evidence is ironclad."
The methodical way he spoke of his own self-preservation should have been chilling. Instead, I found it oddly reassuring. Davidson might be seeking redemption, but he wasn't naive. He wasn’t innocent. Even his salvation was a tangled web of betrayal and deceit.
"What aren’t you telling me, Davidson?" I asked.
Davidson's gaze dropped, age spots dotting the hands that had once seemed so powerful to my young eyes.
"I'm dying." He said it simply, without drama. "Pancreatic cancer. Six months, maybe less. And I'd like to meet my Maker with at least one great sin addressed, if not atoned for."
The confession silenced me. I didn't know how to respond—whether to offer sympathy, whether to question if this was another manipulation. In the end, I said nothing, watching as he continued to write, the scratch of his pen the only sound in the kitchen.
"Here's what we're going to do." Davidson slid the legal pad toward me. "You’re going to lawyer up first thing tomorrow morning, and they’ll file this ASAP. The court will freeze all related assets pending further investigation, and we’ll move forward from there."
I scanned the document, legal jargon dense, but the intent clear. "This will work?"
"Eventually, though it might take some time." Davidson reached for his notary stamp. "And all you need is my signature."
After years of struggle and sacrifice, the simplicity of it seemed almost absurd.
"What about Zahra?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it. "They’ll ruin her if I move forward with the lawsuit."
A hint of the old Davidson—the cunning legal mind behind the gentle demeanor—glinted in his eyes. "That, my boy, depends on what exactly you're willing to risk to keep her safe."
"Everything," I said without hesitation. "Anything."
"Then perhaps we should discuss a different kind of strategy." Davidson leaned forward, lowering his voice as if the walls might be listening. "One that ensures long-term safety for everyone you care about."
Hope, unwelcome and dangerous, flickered to life in my chest.
“And I suggest you choose wisely, Oliver, because whichever path you end up walking down, there’s no turning back once you take that first step.”
His words hung heavily in the air, filling the silence of his empty house, and I wavered.
Could I truly trust a man who’d done what he’d done? Did I even have a choice?
Of course, I had a choice. I could walk away, go back to Seattle, and continue to live life exactly as I had up until Zahra burst back into it.
It was simple.
It was easy.
It was what my own rules dictated.
And it would kill me from the inside out.
I nodded to myself, resolve setting, and looked at Davidson. "I'm listening."