Chapter 18
Desperate Measure
Laird
I walk further into the building, passing wooden doors along the corridor. I stop at the end of the dead-end hallway. Doubt freezes my hand midair. Am I really gonna do this? Is this the right thing?
I weigh my decision. Come on, I’ve made it this far. It’d be ridiculous to turn back now just because of old grudges. I should finish this fast.
I clear my throat, summoning the courage to knock on the enemy’s door. I wait, fidgeting with my tie, rolling my shoulders. My forehead tightens when nobody answers.
The receptionist said Prosecutor Golden’s confirmed to be in. He’s really back working for the New York DA’s office instead of the feds. Then why isn’t he answering my call? I knock three more times, just to be sure.
“Go away, Evans!”
That harsh, gravelly voice from inside makes me snort. I glance up at the tiny CCTV camera above the door, watching me. Instead of leaving, I lean closer, both hands on the frame.
“This is about Alan Schmidt,” I say to the closed door.
Silence. For a few seconds, nothing. When I lift my hand to knock again, the door swings open.
Prosecutor Golden stands there, eyes sharp, mouth pulled in a scowl. “If you’re here to whine about that scandal, go to the shrink.”
“I want you to arrest him.” My tone is steady, deliberate.
He raises a brow. We stare each other down until he steps back and gives me room to enter.
His office isn’t big, but it’s enough. There’s a long conference table, a few chairs, and three assistant desks. At the far end sits a large black wooden desk with a small nameplate—Assistant District Attorney Golden.
Piles of documents and boxes clutter the floor. Metal cabinets line the wall. The smell of stale coffee hits me—God, I know that scent.
The chaos of criminal cases used to fill this place like background noise. Those midnight hours from my college internship flood back, hitting me with a reminder of why I shouldn’t have dragged this law career any further.
“I don’t have coffee for you,” he says flatly.
“That’s fine. Mind if I sit?”
“Whatever.” He shrugs.
He sits across from me at the table, gaze sharp and probing. I don’t flinch. This time, I have to face my demon and make it my weapon.
“I see your assistants have gone home.”
“I only have one. And he’s in Andover with your hired snitch.” His voice drips with sarcasm.
“Oh, come on. He’s your former assistant. Don’t call him that.” I let out a quiet laugh.
“I’ll call people whatever I damn please. If you don’t like it, leave.” His thumb flicks toward the door.
“I thought you’d be interested in working with me, about Alan Schmidt.”
“Depends on what you’ve got.” He smirks, lip twitching like he’s enjoying the game.
“I have direct access. An insider who can get you what you need. And a history you probably don’t know.”
He stares at me, maybe considering if I’m worth taking as an ally. “What made you change your mind?”
“I want him out of my life. He’s been in my way for too long. Time for payback.”
He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Huh. So you’re not the shark your father was. Guess you’re more of a snake, comfortable in your nest and taking things personally.”
“I’ve learned not to be like my father.”
Golden bursts out laughing, too loud, too long. “Guess old man Evans failed to raise his heir.”
“He failed long before I could wipe my own ass. Got worse at hiding his messes after you stole my mother.”
That shuts him up. His jaw tightens as he stares at me. After a long pause, he exhales and shakes his head. “Alright. Call it a debt. Tell me what you need.”
“Concrete action.”
“An arrest? Based on what? We’ve got no evidence.”
“He’s Amy Schmidt’s stepbrother. They lived together for six years before Amy married Peter Morgan.” I open my black case on my lap.
“Nothing new. My assistant already knows that.” His mouth flattens.
“What about his business operations?” I set a thick stack of documents on the table. “Contract copies. You can trace his transaction network. You’ll find something.”
“Hey, hold up, kid.” He presses his palm on the documents, pushing them back toward me. “You know your law license could be revoked for handing this over, right? You’re his lawyer, aren’t you? You really gonna bite the hand that feeds you?”
My jaw tightens. I grind my teeth. “One—I’m not a dog. Two—I’d thank him if he did revoke it.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “Got a side gig, then? Maybe a replacement for Peter Morgan’s business?”
“My business is clean. You can look it up online. Nothing to do with their crap.”
He eyes the documents again, then pulls them to his side. “I’ll find a way.”
“At least now you know where to look.” I hand him another stack. “I started seeing a pattern before I even dug deeper.”
“Go on.” He leans in again.
“This is just my theory—my gut talking.”
“I’m listening.”
I hold his gaze for a second. He might laugh, but it’s worth a shot.
“Alan built a network of mutually beneficial deals. He uses his gyms across the states to recruit members. He calls it a circle of celebrity friends, associates, and VIPs. They all launch new brands, products and stores around the world, pouring massive investments in within a year after joining, and then they sell the products at ridiculous prices while calling them art.”
Golden blinks and frowns at me like I’m pitching a conspiracy theory, then leans back, still thinking. “You mean the high-end brand stuff—special editions, limited runs, all that crap?”
I nod. “Just a guess. You’ve got more access. You can test it.”
“It’s a complex system, and that’s what makes it hard to trace.” He frowns. “You don’t expect me to dig through all that alone, do you? What’s your plan for this so-called collaboration?”
“I’ve got an insider who can pull information.” I sit up straighter. He watches me too long, and I hope he doesn’t sense I’m bluffing. My throat tightens, so I swallow it down.
Golden finally nods, lips pursed. “Well, Mr. Evans. If you’d chosen this career, we’d have made a hell of a team.”
“You know I never had a choice in law.”
“Right. And that’s why you’re ditching the field for a start-up?”
“That’s one of a million reasons.” I rise and adjust my suit.
* * *
Nothing changes. My father hosts a Christmas Eve party every year, inviting colleagues and a few close neighbors. The line of cars along the street in front of our house says the party’s been going on for a while. Guests keep arriving, just like he hoped.
I tighten my coat and clear my throat. My steps take me across the street—not for the party, but to persuade and reassure my girl that I still love her.
A green-and-red wreath hangs on the white door. Unlike my place, the Baxter house looks quiet. No noise, no cars parked out front, no staff rushing around with trays of champagne.
I press the doorbell once. The faint chime rings inside, and not long after, the door opens.
“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Baxter,” I say with a wide smile.
“Oh, Laird! Merry Christmas!” she says, wrapping me in a warm hug.
“A Christmas gift for you.” I lift a bouquet of romance novels mixed with flowers, wrapped in green ribbon and red glitter paper.
“Thank you! Oh, you tease! Come in, you naughty boy.” She pulls me into another tight hug.
When she finally lets go, she gives my arm a playful tap as I step inside. I set the bouquet down on the living room table, and that’s when she appears—coming down the stairs, looking like trouble wrapped in comfort.
Her hair’s in a messy bun, her face covered in a green mask instead of makeup. No jewelry, just a small towel hanging around her neck. And instead of a sexy red dress, she’s wearing a long-sleeved pink pajama set with bunny prints. God, I miss her.
“Oh, God. Laird?!”
Her eyes go wide. She freezes, panics, then spins around and bolts back upstairs. I can’t help but laugh. I missed her—missed all her ridiculous little habits. I’d even hug her right now if she hadn’t run off.
“Aren’t you coming to my dad’s Christmas party?” I ask Mrs. Baxter while she goes to the kitchen to pour a glass of the best eggnog in the universe.
“Later. It’s rare for Fenella to be home on Christmas Eve. She hasn’t spent one here in five years, so I want her to enjoy it while it lasts.”
“Yeah, but you should still come. My dad’ll look for you and lose his mind if you don’t show up. He might storm over tomorrow morning, demanding more eggnog than you could ever make.” I give her a crooked grin.
Sharon just waves a hand, unimpressed. “Let him. What’s the point of going just to hear him brag or lie about you, Lloyd, and his little mistresses?” Her hands are busy spreading cinnamon powder with a small spoon.
I snort. “I thought he already made up his mind last year about—what was her name? Mary? Alicia?” There are too many to keep straight.
“This time her name’s Riley. She’s twenty-five. A new nurse at the hospital where your father goes for checkups. They met last summer, and your father said he rented her a luxury apartment near the hospital for a year.”
“A year?” I lean back on the sofa. “I doubt she’ll last that long.”
Sharon shakes her head, half-laughing. “Tell him that. I’d even bet Lloyd’s the one driving her home now and then.”
“That’s how Lloyd gets rid of those women.” I shrug.
Sharon sighs, clearly done with all our family drama. “Drink up, Laird, while it’s still warm.”
I take the glass and sip the drink. The sweet rum, the spice, the creamy warmth—it all hits just right. The chill in my chest fades in an instant.
“How’s it taste?” she asks.
“Still perfect,” I say, raising the glass.
“Glad to hear it.” She chuckles. “Be careful, though. That drink already burned one poor man today.”
I arch a brow. “Who’s the victim?”
“Some guy named Alan. He showed up, donated a bunch of cash at the bazaar, and got burned when a bottle tipped over on his leg.” She lifts a bent bottle as proof.
And right then, Fenella walks back into the room. Her face is clean now, her hair brushed, her navy sweater neat. She looks softer, warmer—and maybe it’s the light, but her lips look plumper, dewier, like she put something on them. God help me, I want to kiss her.