3. Knox #2
He slides documents across the table. My father picks them up and scans every word. I try to read over his shoulder, but I can’t take in more than a stray word or two. “The more pressing issue at this stage is the Thorne situation.”
My chest squeezes at her name out of that skin bag’s lips.
“I’ve heard through the grapevine that Ms. Thorne has responded to at least one of the firms that contacted her.” Harris folds his hands. “We don’t yet know which one, or whether she’s formally retained counsel. But we should proceed as though she has.”
“What the fu—” My father glares at me, so I self-correct, unclenching my fists and setting them on the table. “What does Thorne have to do with us?”
Harris glances between us, blinking way too much for someone who’s not about to talk out of his ass.
“Ms. Thorne was present on Velocity at the time of the malfunction. She sustained injuries. And given her relationship to the deceased…” he pauses, and I can practically see the thought bubble floating above his head, “she’s considered a high value plaintiff.
If she retains aggressive counsel and pursues litigation rather than settlement, it complicates our position considerably. ”
“She won’t,” my father says.
I look at him hoping it’ll help me decipher what the hell he’s talking about.
“She has no property, no savings, and a father sitting in Otisville.” He reaches for his water glass. “She’ll take the money and move on. That’s what people in her position do.”
People in her position.
I set my jaw and look back at the table.
“With respect,” Harris says, “we can’t assume—”
“I’m not assuming. I’m telling you how this plays out. They’ll make her a reasonable offer, something she can’t turn down given her circumstances. She’ll take it.”
Harris’s lackeys make notes on their computers. They accept his words and move forward the way people always do when my father speaks in that tone.
I clear my throat and ask the one question that’s been churning in my mind since Harris brought up Sawyer’s name. “Why the hell do we care whether or not she settles?”
Harris shifts in his seat, his mouth hanging open like a fish. I wait for him to make words with said mouth but he closes it as fast as it takes me to blink. Then he glances at my father, like he needs permission to speak.
My father’s brow creases slightly, but otherwise his expression stays the same. He gestures to Harris.
“Because litigation means discovery. And discovery brings its own set of concerns. It’s best to keep this out of a courtroom.”
I’m still fucking confused. Wouldn’t they want litigation? That could mean even more money for them.
I look at my father for more.
“It’s standard liability management,” he says. “We avoid discovery wherever possible. That’s why we pay Harris more than he deserves.”
Harris laughs uncomfortably. My father leans back in his chair. Yup, that’s all I’m getting. End of conversation.
Harris moves on, going over numbers. The lackeys keep typing.
I look between them, trying to read the spaces between words, then back down at the table.
Something’s sitting wrong. I can’t name it but it’s there. A feeling that this is more than it seems.
I pick up my water glass and focus on a drip sliding down the edge. Yeah, there’s something off about all this.
The meeting wraps forty minutes later, all my questions still unanswered. Harris shakes my father’s hand, gathers his folder, and disappears with his men down the hall, off to another meeting at the courthouse.
The conference room door closes behind them. I pull out my phone, ready to open the tracking app and check up on Sawyer before leaving.
“You had questions in here that didn’t need asking,” my father says, and I look up, watching him stand and adjust his tie.
“I work for this company. I’m part of this family. This was my accident. My lawsuit. I think I’m entitled to understand what the hell is going on.”
“You’re entitled to what I tell you.” He picks up his jacket from the back of the chair. “Nothing more.”
I watch him shrug it on and button it, my hand squeezing my phone. “I can’t stand being in the same room as you.”
His sharp eyes narrow.
“Then leave.” He straightens his lapels. “No one’s keeping you here.”
I laugh and it comes out low and ugly. “You’ve been keeping me since I was twenty-two years old.”
I already know I’ve said too much. He turns to face me fully, and I make myself hold his gaze even though every survival instinct I have is telling me to walk it back. To smooth it over. To do what I’ve always done.
“Be very careful,” he says quietly.
It happens fast. One moment, he’s standing at arms distance. The next, his hand is fisted in the front of my jacket and he’s pulling me up, shoving me backward until my shoulders hit the window. The glass is cool through my shirt.
He gets in my face, close enough that I can smell the whiskey underneath the coffee. It’s early, even for him.
“You think this is a game.” His voice is low and controlled. “You think you can sit in that chair and talk to me like that and there are no consequences.”
I don’t move. I know better.
“Sawyer Thorne is a loose thread,” he says. “And I am handling it. You are going to stay out of my way and you are going to show up Friday and you are going to smile at Vince Moretti like your life depends on it.” He holds me there, breathing heavy. “Because it does. Do you understand me?”
Seconds go by where we’re locked in this silent battle of wills. I stay quiet, stewing in every single word I want to spit in his face.
He releases me and steps back, smoothing the front of his own jacket with a tug.
“Get yourself together, Knox.” He picks up his briefcase. “You’re smarter than this.”
He leaves the door wide open as he goes, and I watch his retreating frame, standing there by the window, trying to control my breathing.
Control. Something I’m barely holding on to.
Get me the hell out of this building. I pull out my phone and open the app.
Her blue dot is moving. I head toward the elevator, keys already in my palm.