28. Skylar
SKYLAR
There are only two weeks left until my birthday, and I’m no closer to knowing what to do.
It’s an arbitrary date. It’s not like we have to decide to get divorced the second the trust fund hits my account, but somehow it still feels monumental.
When we first entered into this agreement, six weeks felt like an eternity.
I wasn’t sure how I could stand to be near Declan for that amount of time, and now I don’t know if I can leave him.
What if he really was only trying to protect me from becoming powerless like his mother?
But did he not have any faith in me? He must have known I wouldn’t let that happen.
As much as I grew up feeling like I needed to apologize for being myself, I never wanted to be invisible.
He didn’t even give me the opportunity to prove that I was more than a meek little bookworm.
It makes me think about our conversation when we watched Casablanca.
He does the selfless thing because he knows she’s better off without him.
Declan was talking about himself, but like Rick, he made the decision on his own. I was strong enough, or I would have been if he had given me the chance.
My phone chimes again, so I take it out to turn it on silent, but when I notice the text messages are from an unknown number, I swipe it open.
Unknown
I have what you need
Unknown
27 Shadowbridge Rd. #30D
What the hell? Does someone know I’ve been poking around in Marshall Astor’s affairs?
I quickly type the address into a maps website on my computer.
It’s on the other side of town, but still only about ten minutes away.
Either someone is trying to help me or it’s a set-up.
Either way, I owe it to myself and to Declan to check it out.
Opening the bottom drawer of my desk, I throw the can of pepper spray I keep there into my purse.
It dawns on me for a split second that maybe I should bring someone with me, but I don’t need anyone else getting involved in this mess, not even Declan.
Once I know what we’re dealing with, I’ll tell him everything.
Abandoning my trash can article, I grab my purse and head to my car.
In the time that it takes to drive to the address, I almost talk myself out of it five times, but every time I think what would Isla do?
She may have let Rick walk all over her, but she was also kind of a badass.
She definitely would have gone to check this out.
The maps app on my phone leads me to a community of townhouses at the edge of town.
There are cookie-cutter rows of houses that all look identical, aside from some of them having different-colored curtains in the windows, or planters full of bright flowers hanging by the front door.
I look at the house to my left, which is marked number fifteen.
The numbers seem to be increasing, so I keep going until I get to thirty.
House thirty has a ‘D’ off to the side of the door.
Am I supposed to go knock on it?
Ilsa would knock.
I take a deep breath and unbuckle my seatbelt, but before I can get out, another text comes through.
Unknown
Mailboxes to the left.
I turn my head to where there is a neat little row of mailboxes ranging from twenty-five A through thirty D.
When I get to them, I notice they all have keyholes.
Obviously, I don’t have a key, but when I look at the last one, Thirty D is ever so slightly open, so I pull it and sure enough, it gives.
I reach my hand inside and prepare for the worst. A bomb, a poisonous snake, who the hell knows?
But instead, my hand lands on something smooth.
It’s a large manila envelope, the kind with the little string at the top that you have to twist around to keep it closed.
Doing a quick check over my shoulder to see if I’m being watched, I tuck it under my arm and get back in my car.
I can’t bring this home, and Ashton has probably locked up the office for the night, so I wait until I’m far enough from the housing development and turn off onto a little dirt patch on the side of the road.
My hands are practically shaking as I unhook the red string, winding it around until the top of the envelope pops open.
There’s a stack of maybe thirty to forty papers inside.
The top page is a notice of acquisition for an LLC.
I’ve never heard of the company, but it looks like they went bankrupt shortly before they were acquired by Marshall’s firm.
The next page is nearly identical, only it’s for a different company.
There’s page after page of acquisition forms for various companies that have filed for chapter eleven before being acquired by Declan’s father.
I’m not very savvy when it comes to business, but it seems like this is pretty standard practice for an acquisitions company.
I mean, it’s literally in the name. Why does whoever texted me want me to see it?
I continue to leaf through papers until I get to printouts of emails.
Some of them are from a woman named Nicole and some are from Marshall himself.
The subjects all contain the word “consultation,” and when I look at the recipients’ names, a few look familiar.
The one on top is between Nicole Richardson and Tom Jancey.
I flip back through the stack of papers and sure enough, Tom Jancey is named as the president of one of the companies that was acquired.
I flip to the page directly after the consultation email, and it’s a loan agreement that’s been e-signed.
I’ve never taken out a loan before, but I’m pretty sure the interest isn’t supposed to be high enough to never break even.
I start organizing everything into stacks, placing them on every surface in my car.
For every acquisition, there’s a corresponding email in which the company is offered a free consultation, then one where the terms of a loan are outlined.
The loan agreement is signed mere months before the company is finally acquired.
Out of sheer curiosity, I pull out my phone and start searching the business names.
They are all mid-size companies, some family-owned and operated, others that were starting out, but all of them were the subject of articles citing financial struggles at one point or another before eventually filing for bankruptcy.
My stomach sinks, nausea scratching its way up my throat.
I finally see it—what the anonymous person wanted me to know.
Marshall Astor has been systematically preying on struggling companies, offering them bullshit consulting services and then getting them in over their heads with high-interest loans so he can strip them for parts.
The contents of the envelope are not exactly a smoking gun, but there’s enough of a pattern to warrant an investigation.
Whoever collected all this is someone who both had access to internal files and wants to see Marshall go down.
But why me? Because they know I’m married to his son or because I work for a newspaper and have the resources to expose him? If I do, what does that mean for Declan? He worked at the company. Does he know about what his father is doing? Was he helping him before he left?
I’m not going to get any answers sitting in this ditch, so I attempt to stuff the papers back into the envelope, but they catch on something.
There’s one more sheet I didn’t see. I pull it out and my hand flies to my mouth with a gasp.
It’s a mug shot. Marshall’s mug shot. Attached to it is a police report.
My eyes scan the paper until they land on the charge and my stomach rolls.
Domestic assault.
My throat goes dry.
Did he do something to his wife? I look at the date, which wasn’t available on the bare-bones record I found the other day. The arrest is only from a year ago. That’s right around when Emory said Declan’s mom had an affair. He must have paid someone off to cover it up and have it sealed.
My head spins with indecision. Do I tell Declan what I found? It might gut him, but I would want to know if it were my mom. Or do I wait until I have all the facts before turning his world upside down? Maybe he already knows and it wouldn’t make a difference.
I blow out a heavy sigh, and with unanswered questions still bouncing around in my head, I place the files in my glove compartment before pulling out onto the road.
I still don’t know what to do by the time I pull into Declan’s driveway and see Nate’s Range Rover parked on the far side. As far as I know, Declan and Nate aren’t exactly friends, so what the hell is he doing here?
Opening the door slowly, so I don’t make noise, I enter the house. Voices filter down the hallway and seem to come from the kitchen.
“Look, man. I’ll see what I can do, but if she’s not willing to cooperate, my hands are tied.”
Are they talking about me?
There’s a laugh, or more like a snicker, and then, “I thought you were the one who likes doing the tying?”
A brief pause. “Did you ask me to come here to talk about my sex life or because you need my help?”
Silence.
“Fine. I need your help.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Footsteps approach, so I swing the door open, pretending I just walked in.
Nate Caldwell is tall—like really tall—with jet-black hair and piercing eyes that sometimes look more gray than blue.
He’s lean, but you can tell by the way his dress pants strain against his thighs that he works out.
In short, he’s intimidating as fuck. I don’t think I’ve ever said more than two words to the man.
So when his long legs eat up the distance to the front door, I almost cower in place as if he’s a king and I’m a lowly peasant who must bow to him.
Thankfully, I don’t actually bow, but I do stutter.
“H-hi. I was just getting in. From out there. Where I was.” I point to the open door.